


The Windhovers: The Fledgling

by sarcasticchick



Series: The Windhovers [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, Crossover, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 02, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticchick/pseuds/sarcasticchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them." - Galileo Galilei</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And the new story begins in the tale of Ianto Jones, ~~man of mystery~~ Windhover born, and confused as ever. A surprise guest or two show up, an adventure might be had, and above all, some questions will be answered. The Fledgling picks up 10 days from where The Windhovers left off, and hopefully you'll enjoy the flight of fantasy as I have plotting and writing it.
> 
> Written late 2008 - shortly after s2 of TW and not taking in to account s4 of DW.
> 
> ***Moving things over from LJ as there are better reading/formatting options - not a new fic, but feel free to reread if you'd like!***
> 
> *******

Ianto straightened his already-straight tie while he waited for the Hub door to roll open, adding a tug at his cuffs for good measure. He wasn't nervous; he swore to himself he wasn't nervous but rather it was just an adjustment of his facade, ensuring the front was as steady and nondescript, as there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about. He was simply bracing for yet another day at Torchwood Three. Another beginning to yet another day, one certain to be as far removed from normal as abnormal could get.

And to think he'd only been back ten days. So much for his relief to be back to Torchwood, to embrace "normal" and reclaim everything he had known _before_ ; that feeling had lasted only four hours after Jack had declared him 'safe' to return to work, restricted to light duty for the time.

Before. _Before_ , he had been human. _Before_ , he had been living a comfortable existence, as comfortable as Torchwood could get with a relationship of sorts, a job that was never dull, coworkers who might substitute as friends in a pinch. _Before_ , he wasn't on edge, he didn't approach life with trepidation, and he most certainly didn't fear discovery.

 _Before_ , everything had been normal.

Now, he almost wished he hadn't left Lester's.

Not that he wasn't overjoyed to have returned to his job, to his team, to _Jack_ , but there was a quality about his return that just tasted off, ill-fit like pants tailored too short in the leg and too wide at the waist. He'd never heard Gwen's "Ianto, good morning! How are you?" sound so awkward or forced, as though she wasn't entirely sure if she should be asking such a question, to which Ianto replied with an artificial smile and generalized "just fine, thank you. And you?" He did appreciate her effort, though, when Gwen surprised him with almost shy questions about Torchwood One, an interest she had never demonstrated before. She had done her research, maybe she had spoken with Jack or Owen, but Ianto didn't think he'd ever be met again with confusion regarding the extent of London's destruction.

Which was good, since he didn't particularly enjoy remaining silent when met with ignorance.

Owen didn't tease any more, nor call him 'tea-boy' after the initial welcome. In fact, Ianto rarely saw him apart from the morning briefings when he stared at Ianto while his focus was elsewhere and looked away when Ianto glanced at him. Ianto didn't know what to make of it, not that he'd understood Owen any better when Owen had been _alive_ much less now when his temper was on an even shorter fuse. Maybe he just intrigued Owen, a medical mystery to solve. Or maybe the unexplained scared Owen. It ought to -- Torchwood and the unexplained were generally two things that never met a positive outcome and Owen had been around long enough to have learned that lesson. So Ianto avoided Owen just as effectively as Owen avoided him, rather than be met with any more questions he had to fob off or accusations he had to deny, and that seemed to suit Owen just fine as well.

Tosh watched him too, though she was far less suspicious with her observations and more ... well, Ianto wasn't quite sure what to call it, though he rather thought he wasn't the only one who benefited from her daily visits at Providence Park. The first time he'd brought her coffee in the afternoon and sat beside her, she'd been so thrown by his query about the projects she was working on she'd nearly spilled her drink.

That had been six days ago. Now he sat with her for their afternoon coffee break and she talked without prodding, rattling off details that were so often beyond his understanding he couldn't have interrupted even if he'd wanted to. Sometimes he knew what the device she was working on was, and offered a name and application based on 'something he'd seen in the Archives.' He didn't do it too often, mostly for the more dangerous devices when mishandling could mean a tragic consequence, but she never seemed to mind the interruptions. But she got to talk, and Ianto hoped that he was in some way repaying the favor.

Jack. Well, the less thought abut Jack, the better off Ianto would be.

"Mmm....there really is no better beginning to a day than your coffee."

Ianto smiled in greeting, passing Jack's coffee (double strength, black, blue-striped mug) off to him without missing a beat. It'd become routine since he'd returned, meeting over the coffee machine when Ianto arrived in the morning. Sometimes the sounds of footsteps announcing Jack's presence were partnered with a touch -- just a brush against the nape of his neck or the small of his back -- but lately even those had begun to dwindle.

He spent the nights alone of late. If he was honest with himself, the idea of waking up in Jack's bed (or Jack in his) with wings, when Ianto doubted his control, overshadowed any desire to be near him.  The solution was simple, he knew it was. But his courage and resolve were equaled by a fear so strangling it choked off any attempt to tell Jack,

An alien, living in a world of humans.

Jack would understand, if anyone could it would _be_ Jack.

Ianto still couldn't do it. And it was hurting them, the "good" they'd talked about on the pier. Jack just thought he was still angry and betrayed over Providence, and he wasn't wrong about that. On some levels, Ianto understood both what had happened and the team's motivations, but at the same time, Jack had known what that place and what Ianto's freedom meant.

They would work through that, eventually. Or rather, Ianto could, as the onus was on him since  it was his betrayal and anger.

"Perfect." Jack sipped his coffee in what appeared to be bliss as Ianto sat in the chair opposite Jack's desk. Routine and familiar, something he looked forward to even if the time felt stiff. "You used to talk with me."

Ianto tilted his head in acknowledgment of Jack's statement, though he would argue they never really did. Not until his temporary loss of faculties when the situation forced the conversation. That wasn't entirely true, he supposed, they talked about some things, danced around most of the rest. It was part of what they had been, the previous incarnation of "Jack and Ianto," nothing terribly sensitive or personal, especially not about their past.

It was different, now, this relationship version 2.0. _He_ was different. And all that honesty and forthcoming in the middle of crisis felt nothing but awkward with the crisis removed. He wasn't at all accustomed to having his personal life known beyond the glimpses he gave to the few he could trust. Now, everything he'd told Jack wore like a jumper knit with the armholes in the wrong places and too small a neck.

Not to mention the shared dream, which Ianto refused to think about because it led to far too many questions and implications his mind simply could not comprehend.

Or it could, but the conclusions were as unsettling as they were terrifying.

And Owen, Gwen, and Tosh all knew ... well, he still wasn't exactly sure what all they knew anymore as he wasn't privy to what was discussed while he was gone and he was too afraid to check the CCTV. Better not knowing and acting under the notion that it was only pieces of him scattered about, some in Lester's hands, some in Jack's, some in Dr. Ramamurthy's, and some in Tosh's, but never all in one place.

He knew that was not the making of healthy relationships. But all he had to do was remember Lisa to wonder if he had ever known one.

"We talk." Ianto defended, lazily stretching a hand to touch the coral on Jack's desk, knowing as he did that the habit was turning into a rather large tell and that Jack watched and cataloged every movement. He'd grown quite fond of the coral; it provided a sense of relaxation that soothed him even if the situation between he and Jack turned tense or uncomfortable, whether placebo or something more Ianto wasn't sure. He did wonder if Jack was aware that something alien was growing on his desk, but Jack wasn't one to possess useless, meaningless things. Ianto was far more curious as to what kind of alien it was, as the name was recorded as symbols like a trickster had gained access to the data and rewrote all text in _Wingbat_ font. Infrequent, but different languages weren't uncommon within the data; sometimes he felt so close to understanding that he knew he simply wasn't reaching for the right answer.

A Boolean search with the incorrect parameters.

 _TARDIS_.

An alternate name was TARDIS.

Ianto blinked in surprise as the information unwound in his mind -- _a TARDIS, like the one the Doctor traveled with?_ \-- withdrawing his hand casually to allay any of Jack's suspicions. Didn't quite work; Jack's eyes narrowed over the rim of his coffee mug but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by what Ianto could have sworn was petulance. "You and Toshiko talk."

"No," Ianto corrected as he settled back in the chair with his coffee, "I listen. She needs ... I'm comfortable, I think." He didn't add that she'd combed his hair, every day. If anything was to break down walls between individuals, such a simple act of kindness had to rank up there.

He quite literally saw when his words sparked an interest in Jack, an opening into a history of which Ianto didn't know he could ever speak. Those horrors of being trapped within his own mind, a state of consciousness he hoped never to experience again. Not even in memory.

"How much do you remember?"

Ianto wasn't going to touch that question now, perhaps not ever. He simply didn't know if he _could_. As the rush of discovery and reunion dwindled and his life readopted the slower, Torchwood pace, he found himself returning to the terrors that had only been nightmares before. They were simply too much, as were half the experiences in his life. Mental origami, he called it, the bending and reshaping of old memory into new packages; not the perfect solution but it maintained his sanity, something he'd always valued but now cherished. Less threatening forms carefully tucked away on shelves within his mind, no longer ominously looming but present in the form of a crane, wings -- not folded paper ones but his own -- promising serenity by acknowledging the existence of the experience however giving it no control of its shape.

Not perfect, yet better than chaos.

Hoping that Jack would adhere to the 'rules' for their conversations, Ianto redirected with a question of his own. "What were you trying to do, that night?"

"You-" Jack's jaw snapped shut and for a while there was silence, awkward only in that Ianto had never seen him so utterly flummoxed by a question. The blue-striped coffee mug was turned in his hands eight times before Jack said anything at all, and then he never raised his eyes. "I thought there was a chance that you might've known what was going on, but couldn't tell us. So I ... " He stopped, leaning forward to change the date on his brass-plated calendar. A beautiful antique, but the delay only proved to make whatever Jack was to say seem worse than it most likely was. Ianto half expected him to change the subject.

"I tried to look in to your mind, to break through whatever had you enthralled. But there was just ... nothing. At least it felt like nothing."

Or perhaps it was just as bad as Jack had been intimating.

"I saw _nothing_." Jack finally looked at him, and Ianto could see the fear even now as Jack chopped the air with hands to emphasize his point. Ianto didn't know whether to be furious at Jack for the attempted intrusion or sympathy. "I didn't think you would -- not that I'd never want you to know but I'm not the most skilled. My instructor, she was amazing. She'd use these anti-gravity alligator clips that'd ... " Jack's voice trailed off, as did his false smile for which Ianto was eternally grateful. "I'm sorry if I hurt you, and I never would have done that without your consent if I'd thought..."

"Desperate times..." Ianto shrugged, though he felt no more reconciled with the truth than he had when it had been Tosh perusing his thoughts. He wasn't altogether sure how he would respond if Jack had asked outside of the situation; Jack was someone he trusted with his life, but the idea of Jack knowing his thoughts was far more intimate than Ianto was comfortable with. In fact, despite Jack's apparent horror at finding 'nothing' within his mind, Ianto was relieved.

The irony that he trusted Jack with his life but not his secret wasn't missed as his secret _was_ his life.

But currently, trust was as thin as Gwen's coffee.

Maybe it wasn't a lack of trust, and Ianto had to admit that he was to blame for the continued monitoring of his life. He'd lied to the team, or at the very least, evaded truth in regard to his disappearance from Providence Park, his absence for a month and apparent return to health. He'd lied to _Jack_. And while he may have passed the lie detector test and all the medical scans, the captain suspected something was off with Ianto and his story. Something wrong. _Different_.

So they watched. Again. A new camera in the Archives, two in his home, all poorly disguised and Ianto assumed it was more respect rather than ineptitude on the team's part -- they knew he'd find them, so why bother hiding them. He didn't begrudge them their concern. Hell, according to the Torchwood Handbook, they never should have released him.

They trusted him, but they didn't _trust_ him. Much like after Lisa, only it was harder this time because they were _family_. His family. Ones who walked on eggshells around a fallen child, hoping the past had been healed but fearing the possibility of relapse or worse.

So they watched. It was why Jack met him at the coffee machine every morning, because he knew precisely when Ianto left home. And it was the only reason why Jack had allowed him to go home, alone.

Ianto could tell them, tell _Jack_ and the surveillance would be dropped. He knew it would be. He just _couldn't_.

So he dealt with all the suspicion, ignored it, tried to brush it aside and pretend it didn't exist.

Everything was normal.

Except when it wasn't.

The silence stretched and pulled in Jack's office, twisting around the two of them until Ianto swore he could see the intertwining arms of their combined disquiet. He thought of leaving Torchwood behind, thought of it often in fact. It was one alternative to confession, one alternative to revealing to Jack and the rest of his team who he was to stop the ceaseless observation. And Jack had given him the option, way back when the initial buzz of reunion had possibly clouded judgment. Strike that, definitely clouded. They'd returned to the Information Center and fucked in the side closet, unable to even make it to Jack's room. Neither had been thinking about leaving, truth be told. Ianto would have laughed at the very idea had he considered it after the stresses at Lester's.

He'd wanted nothing more than to return and thought nothing of the consequences.

Ianto got his wish.

Didn't mean he liked it.

Whether or not Jack's offer still stood, to leave without RetCon, was most likely a dream long lost. Now that sense had returned, words spoken in the moment were questionable at best and deniable if pushed. Ianto wondered what Jack would say if he _did_ push, if Jack would agree and then Ianto would wake, days, _months_ later with no recollection of who he was or how he got there.

He trusted Jack, he really did.

But Jack was Torchwood.

And fuck if he wasn't starting to think like Dr. Ramamurthy. Was paranoia contagious? Or a by-product of living among humans as a non-human?

Ianto drank the last swallow of his coffee and stood, crossing the path around the desk quickly to collect Jack's empty mug. Mostly empty, but Jack didn't complain when Ianto took it from him. He hadn't touched the coffee since he'd admitted to Ianto what he'd done.

Blame was a little scarce from Ianto's direction. They'd shared a dream, and while in humbleness he'd like to think he'd had nothing to do with it, the facts as they were presented indicated Ianto had possibly breached the same strict code of ethics Jack played by.

He supposed he had that confession to make as well.

"You didn't hurt me," Ianto added softly, which was complete truth. He'd felt nothing during Jack's attempt to peer into his thoughts ... well, nothing relating to Jack's attempt. That period was still muddled, an eternity stretched across a thought with no body, life a hallucination of will and reality. Setting aside the blue-striped mug, Ianto leaned against the desk with his arms crossed. One of them moved, either he or Jack, so their legs pressed against the other, but Ianto wasn't sure who was responsible for the action, only that neither moved away.

Jack was willing to listen, should Ianto decide to talk, that much was exceedingly clear to Ianto. Maybe some day, when Ianto was certain Jack wouldn't kill him for the betrayal. Or for being a species that was feared across the universe. Ianto instinctively doubted that, but the thought had crossed his mind. And maybe some day, Ianto wouldn't, by protecting himself, push Jack away.

Maybe some day they'd be good.

Ianto redirected his eyes when Jack raised his head, the eye contact with this degree of intimacy far too much to handle for the moment. "I just ... I knew you were there." He smiled, an action both fond and rueful in reminiscence, while he watched the data scroll by meaninglessly on the screen hanging on the far wall. It was easier than looking at Jack. "I saw you, that night and sometimes other times. You were this ... light. This beautiful, white-gold light. And I knew ... you were there. I saw you watching me."

"You were aware ... the whole time?"

The surprise in Jack's voice startled Ianto away from the second screen with a swirling image to glance down at him. He hadn't moved, fingers steepled at his chin with his leg pressed against Ianto's, but his eyes ... he was cataloging, Ianto recognized. Gathering information and cataloging so that he could figure Ianto out. Understand what was going on. Discern just what Ianto wasn't telling him. But there was more there, and Ianto uncomfortably realized it was pity. Perhaps not pity, sympathy. Empathy? At any rate, far closer to knowing precisely what Ianto may have experienced or thought than he could accept. "Would you care for another coffee? I've Archival work that will carry me late into the afternoon, and I'd hate for you to suffer withdrawal."

Jack didn't say anything, not for a long while. At least the time it took for the blood to begin pounding in Ianto's ears and his heart raced under Jack's study. It was an irrational reaction, he knew it was. Whether it was brought on by the fear that Jack would redouble his efforts to get an answer, maybe even order Ianto to respond, or simply from an unwillingness to share what had been both a humiliating and edifying experience for want of control. But, the anxiety was there, quickening his breath so much so that Ianto had to consciously force himself to maintain a steady rate.

"Keep your comm link with you," Jack ordered without bothering to pretend it was something other, and despite the blank expression, Ianto could read the disappointment and frustration as easily had it been scribed in ink on the papers on Jack's desk. Not just any papers, reports for UNIT. With doodles in the margins, Ianto noted with a scowl, knowing he'd have to replace the vandalized pages before he sent them on to the General.

Doodles bearing a frightening resemblance to the marks Ianto bore and the ones which had decorated the walls and skies in his dream.

 _Their_ dream.

Too fucking weird. "Of course." Not that Jack wouldn't be watching from the CCTV in the Archives, but at least he wouldn't be able to read what Ianto was researching down in the Archives from the footage. He straightened and gathered the mugs again, ignoring the feeling of cold on his leg where Jack's had pressed so tight it had felt like fire. That moment was long lost, thanks to him; but honesty and forthcoming weren't the answers now. Not for the moment. Not until Ianto could get his hands on control far better than he held now.

Though he was fairly certain that withholding things and attempting to work through them on his own was completely against healthy trauma-recovery rules. Not that he cared. He'd dealt with the destruction of Torchwood One on his own.

Perhaps not the best example to use to his credit.

"Ianto."

He'd made it nearly to the door when Jack stopped him, nothing more physical than the touch of his voice stalling Ianto's exit. Exit, not retreat, Ianto reaffirmed. He spun on one heel, facing Jack with a carefully crafted smile of indifference. "Be needing that second coffee, then?"

"No." The twist of Jack's lips, both angling downwards at a dramatic pitch banished any thought of escaping before additional questions were raised, more perspectives pushed. And apparently coffee was not on Jack's mind, though given the alternative Ianto wished it was. At least brewing the perfect cup, a practice he'd perfected so long ago, was easy. Jack stood, without his usual grace though with the confidence Ianto recognized as so innately _Jack_ , with his hands stuffed in his pockets and voice hoarse and low. "I was there. Every day."

The statement gave Ianto pause, time had lost meaning while Ianto had been in Providence Park and he hadn't realized it'd been every day that he'd watched Jack through his window into the outer world while Jack watched him. It took a while before Ianto remembered to consciously _breathe_ ; his body forgetting all function as he tried to understand the words Jack spoke. It wasn't that he didn't understand the words, the words themselves were easily defined. Context, however, tweaked and shifted the words around Jack until they molded into shapes of stormy grey in a land of blue lightning, words spoken within shifting dreamscapes.

But sharing dreams was impossible. Except when it was.

"Thank you," Ianto finally said once he'd realized time had continued forward without his permission, though Jack never made to move. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, and Ianto had to wonder what it had been like for Jack to witness everything as it unfolded. Fear depended only upon perspective. "I ... thank you." So much Ianto wanted to say, so much he couldn't, not because he didn't want to, but because the words simply escaped him, leaving him struggling to say more. Instead he stood near the doorway, two empty mugs in hand, one blue striped and one cranberry with nothing more on his tongue than a 'thank you' for everything Jack had done and what it meant to him.

It didn't seem to matter as Jack nodded once, maybe he understood far better than Ianto could explain. He didn't wait, though, just gripped the mugs tighter until he was certain the ceramic would crack and returned the nod before fleeing (albeit a tad clumsily, to his embarrassment) to wash up the mugs before the others arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

His method was easy, really. Ianto would pick up multiple files from the section he needed for his archival project -- really nothing more than refiling and re-cataloging the growing set of books, documents and gadgets gathered through the history of Torchwood Three as well as boxes upon boxes of retrieved technology from Torchwood One -which were surrounded by the sections and files that were truly the focus of his "project." He'd mask his actions by replacing the files all at once, burying the ones not sanctioned strictly by Torchwood research amidst the ones for his project.

That was one thing nice about hard copy research. No data trail to wipe.

Ianto searched for everything, from the Windhovers to angels to winged humanoids to the markings and uncovered some nasty creatures that would join his nightmares ( _Weeping Angels_? He was never looking at a stone statue of an angel the same way again). Nothing sounded like what little he knew of himself, and there was no mention of the Windhovers.

None.

At least, so far. He had only really made it through the obvious searches and was beginning on the obscure.

Though he did find out that Lester's species used the third eye in their mating rituals, something his imagination could have done without.

The planet _Halcyon_ turned up only one result that he could find, a mention buried in fabled planets of lore, lending confirmation to his suspicions that the annotation '(d)' in reference to the planet meant 'destroyed' or 'dead'. Of course it would; why would his search be made remotely easy when it was so much more entertaining for fate to fuck with him while dangling tidbits with little to no relevance to his crisis at hand.

He'd been searching for days now, every moment spent in the Archives slogging through reams upon reams of information and nothing within Torchwood was good enough. He could ask Jack, Ianto proposed to himself, but that thought was just as quickly dismissed and filed away with the hundreds of false leads and dead ends.

Ianto did do work on his actual project, his actions appearing for all intents and purposes on the CCTV as within reason and function of his archival project. None of the others asked for details, and Jack just signed off on it without looking at the project specs, leading Ianto to believe he was being humored by permitting him to work on it. An alternate and yet equally viable thought could be that the team might think he was escaping and finding comfort within the stacks of aged tomes and artifacts after his past few months.

Which was in part truth. There was simply something so inherently calming about fingering the old, faded leather-bound books and preserved manuscripts, quite literally touching a history (and a future) that few in the world would ever know.

An alarm pierced Ianto's thoughts, the sound so loud as it bounced off the vaulted ceiling and stone walls encasing the Archives that he flinched reflexively. Internal alarms, his mind quickly proffered, rapidly filtering through all eventualities; an intruder in the Hub. Quickly, he crossed the floor to the far wall, tension winding every muscle to springing point as they waited for the command to _fire_. It wasn't just nerves, it wasn't fear, there was something _more_ , unexplained, unidentifiable, but certainly there, screaming for attention even as a sense of calm poured over him, beginning in his hair, it felt like, and rinsing over him like he'd stepped under a shower head spraying water. Cool, contrasting with the fiery adrenaline burning through his veins with the rapid pace of his heart.

Knowing his luck, he'd suffer a heart attack in the Archives and die before the invasion ever reached the level.

If he had any luck at all, the intruder would not be a Dalek or Cyberman.

Ianto tapped his earpiece with one hand as the other punched in the code on the panel set into the wall. "Jack?" A portion of the wall slid open, revealing a small cache of weapons. Nothing that would work against a creature of metal, but if the intruder wore flesh, then the handgun might do a little damage. A pitiful defense, but the best he could do within the Archives. Once he got closer to the Hub, he could ascertain the situation and hit the other caches hidden throughout Torchwood Three as well if necessary. Unless, of course, the place went into full lockdown and then what he had would simply have to do. In fact, Ianto was relatively surprised that the place hadn't been -

Silence. The absence of the blaring alarm was almost tactual, his skin feeling lighter without the weight of the alarm pressing against it. His heartbeat took the place of the klaxon, thrumming with the pulse of a tympani measuring cut time. _Alla breve_.

His mind couldn't make up if time was racing or crawling, or somewhere muddled in the middle. Tucked away in the hollowed halls of the Archives where common time was lost in the history of the past and future, time could have meant anything.

He could have been standing there, staring at the panel with the gun in hand for hours while listening to the silence.

Or maybe just a quantum-second.

 _"Ianto."_

Jack's voice in his ear started Ianto away from the wall, first spinning on his heel towards the door until he realized the voice came from his comm.

He'd have to remember to delete that embarrassing little bit of footage from the CCTV, later, when the present crisis was averted.

 _"Come up to the Hub, there's someone here I want you to meet."_

"Is there a threat to the base?" Ianto waited ten seconds before he scowled as his question was met with no response, not even radio clicks, which only proved to confuse him even more. Jack had sounded almost ... excited ... yet his words had contained none of the Standard Operating Procedure for Base Incursion code words calling off the alarm, or indicating that the threat still existed. In fact, Jack's words were nowhere close to resembling code.

Typical Jack, defying all Rules and Regulations.

Unless it wasn't Jack at all but an impostor unaware of any protocol.

Ianto opted for caution before haste, taking time to tuck a stun gun into a sock and the handgun into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. History had taught him well as he crept along the walls, avoiding the internal CCTV monitoring the halls, though avoiding the cameras would hardly have saved him from the Cybermen and Daleks (how he saved himself at Torchwood One he preferred not to think about, in fact, couldn't remember at all). Wasn't difficult to navigate through Torchwood Three; he'd quickly learnt when he'd been taking care of Lisa how to avoid detection as he moved about. Or deliberately place himself at a certain location at a specific time.

He heard Jack's boisterous laughter before he actually saw anyone, a sound that both relieved him and annoyed. On the one hand, the chances that the base was under attack were rapidly dwindling. On the other, it meant Ianto had spent the time since the alarm in a constant state of adrenalin-fueled alertness and coming down off that was going to wreck his evening. Not that he'd had anything planned, but the possibilities would probably be discarded in favor of stumbling into his bedroom and falling face-first on his bed.

Jack could have informed him that there was no threat.

And if it was a guest in the form of one of Jack's old Time Agency buddies _a la_ John Hart, Ianto was going to be especially perturbed. He'd played eye-candy enough for one of Jack's exes.

"Ianto! What took you? I've-"

Whatever Jack said next was lost to the wind as Ianto whipped the gun from his trousers and aimed it on the visitor so instinctively he couldn't remember a conscious thought to arm himself.

Not that he had much conscious thought as information overwhelmed him, tumbling past perception. Not sight and not thought but awareness in a litany of the universe's truths.

Names.

Planets.

 _Species._

"-Ianto, stand down! He's not-"

"-oh my god-"

"-the fuck did he get a weapon? Put down the gun before-"

"-not Torchwood One! He is not the enemy-"

"-relapse?-"

Ianto heard the commotion and clamor of voices and ignored them just as easily, letting chaos flow right over him and along the straight line of the gun to the man in his sights. With everyone else he'd encountered, it was brief. A moment of awareness of who they were, just a blip upon his consciousness as information he hadn't realized was missing appeared in the blanks.

This ... it kept going. The list kept growing. Names, so many names. People, places and things Ianto didn't recognize, didn't _wish_ to recognize as he ruthlessly shoved aside the deluge of '(d)' annotated charges and allowed the rage to curl about his core.

Rage and distress, confusion and horror.

Fuck, he couldn't _breathe_.

Struggling to maintain a grip on everything from consciousness to physical form (and oh how instinctively he wanted to go back to his winged state and embrace fury as his body, mind, hell, spirit if there was one kept demanding), Ianto shook off the touch which had fallen on his arm. When the touch returned, he may have growled at the person.

He'd never admit to it, and CCTV didn't capture sound so there would be no physical evidence.

His eyes never left the man in front of him, half an eye down the sight of the gun to ensure a true aim. The man who made no attempt to move or even protest the threat of the weapon.

 _The Doctor_.

The alias itself made Ianto's hands shake, not in fear but as a body physically battered by contrary information. Ianto knew the Doctor had played a role at Torchwood One and the defeat of the Cybermen and Daleks; Ms Hartmann had done little to hide her elation at 'capturing' the Doctor. And yet, there was a past. Future. An existence of so much destruction ...

"-stand down, that's an order, Ianto.-"

But Ianto didn't. He _wouldn't_. He knew of the commotion about him, of Owen with a needle of sedative ready and threatening but warded off after a rapid retrieval for the stun gun at his ankle; even if Owen was technically dead he still _moved_ , which required electrical impulse. The jolt of electricity would at least temporarily slow him, long enough for Ianto to evade the needle.

All of this flashing through his mind in the span it took to blink, his eyes never leaving the Doctor.

And in the far corner of his mind, still the list of charges grew.

As the information swirled and splintered fractals as connections were made to the destroyed, even as the tales Jack had spoken of the Doctor attempted to align themselves within the gaps to balance, the overpowering twist of extremes deafened the clamor of everyone shouting for his attention and felt like a fire-brand through his chest, burning or perhaps squeezing his heart until he had to consciously force himself to breathe. Short gasps of air smelling of buried stone punctuated the silence, forged by deeds so terrifying in scope it _hurt_. Physical, down to the fingertips holding the gun going numb and the acidic burn of bile chewing away at the stretch between gut and throat.

It made him sick. Looking at the Doctor ... fuck. How could anyone...?

Ianto had little time to continue the question as it was banished from his mind; no, not banished, blanketed. Wrapped in a fuzzy warmth that tasted of hot cocoa and felt like a lit fireplace on a frigid day. It was distracting yet not worrisome; he had no misgivings or fear only ... comfort. Like when, after a long day, he'd run his fingers through Jack's hair, whose entire body would unwind with the repetitive motion. So too Ianto felt himself physically respond, the escalating tension and stress rapidly deflating to alleviate the pressure in his chest, the weight dissolving as the pain melted.

Straightening with resolve and far more calm than he had initially felt, Ianto faced the Doctor with little hesitation in his mind, his thoughts once again flowing freely about him instead of the frantic, twisting chaos they had been just moments earlier.

The Doctor didn't miss it either, and if his eyes widened, Ianto assumed it was simply a trick of the Hub's lights.

"Ianto, what do you see?"

Jack's voice, deceptively calm and tinged with wariness, sounded as clear to Ianto's ears as if he had been speaking only to him in an empty room. Gone were the swirling, muddled tones of words spoken but recognized only for their cadence rather than content. And gone was the urge to confront the Doctor in full Windhover splendor, though the awareness tickled in a corner Ianto sometimes wished to deny that he _could_ , and it might be preferable to how he appeared now. Though, that made as little sense as why he'd suddenly found a sort of peace amidst the overwhelming song of destruction.

"Oh, I'd say what he sees is precisely what he's supposed to see."

The Doctor raised his hands in the universally understood sign of surrender -- maybe not surrender but acquiescence to Ianto's strategic position, and that threw him off far more than the acquiescence itself. Or maybe it was the fact that the Doctor seemed to _know_ more about Ianto than the others recognized. Wouldn't surprise Ianto in the least, though how much and why were a mystery. Maybe he smelled different, though Jack's accurate sense of taste and smell would tend to disprove that logic.

Realizing his focus had drifted, Ianto raised his chin and leveled the gun, again, just for good measure. Not that he'd actually shoot the Doctor. No, as his mind more logically addressed the situation, shooting the Doctor was not in any plan or possible outcome. No matter how guilty he might be for the innumerable charges held against him, death was not proper.

He really didn't know what the alternative was, but it most certainly wasn't death. No matter the charges.

Ianto felt his jaw clench as he tried to figure out how best to proceed under ever-shifting perspectives, not thoughts blowing in disarray but rather shoved into alignment as though they always belonged. Maybe they did belong. Belong? Existed. They existed and simply added themselves to awareness.

The Doctor. Standing here. In the Hub with Jack defending him. That had to mean something as well. He trusted Jack, and Jack believed in the Doctor, not the monster unfurling in great detail within his mind.

So many deaths. So much destruction.

And it all followed in this man's wake.

"Ianto?" Jack's face appeared in his field of vision, wavering just to the left of center, close enough to stop Ianto if he chose, but the urgency appeared to have drained from the situation, at least from Jack's perspective and tone. Maybe it had. "Ianto, listen to me. Torchwood One is gone. Their rules don't apply anymore."

What the hell was he going to do now? He'd pulled a gun on the Doctor, Jack's friend and at times Ianto wondered if "lover" ever factored in, and threatened Owen with a stun gun. Ianto wasn't panicking, not yet, but gods he could feel himself crawling closer to that precarious edge as he couldn't offer reason for the apparent irrationality of his actions. They would bloody section him again after this. Suspend him at the very least.

But he wasn't wrong. And the Doctor knew it as well as he. That meant something. It had to.

Reassurance flooded his mind, and if it weren't for working so long at Torchwood Ianto would have recoiled at the sensation, but it was no more abnormal than he. He knew, he _knew_ he wouldn't go back. He'd escape. He'd flee with ... whatever _this_ was.

Understanding.

Loyalty.

 _Kinsmanship._

Ianto didn't have to answer Jack, didn't have to worry about moving or fighting as Tosh's computer's alarm alerted Torchwood Three to Rift activity. He didn't move from his vigilant stance, nor did the gun ever waver or his eyes move from the Doctor.

But he wasn't going to shoot; Ianto knew he wasn't. He just couldn't bring himself to lower the gun in face of such great threat to Earth. It was just inherently _wrong_. Forget the trouble outside the Hub's doors, they had trouble _here_.

"Jack, reports of multiple blue slug-like creatures coming in." Tosh's voice cut through the silence after she'd disabled the alarm. Ianto didn't even need to look over at her to know she was standing at her desk, typing away while monitoring multiple screens containing CCTV footage, data reports and various diagnostics she constantly ran.

Scary smart, their Tosh.

"Mellonians from the planet Crabb! Haven't seen one of them in ages. Sticky sort, but delightful hosts. They play backgammon, did you know? Backgammon! Well, not backgammon like you know it, but the theory's still the same. Sort of. Not remotely, actually. But they use colored chips and twelve-sided die on a game board with little triangles."

Ianto felt his stare shift to one more of incredulity than animosity as the Doctor raved about the entertainment skills of the Mellonian. A quick glance about, eyes never leaving the Doctor but observing on the periphery, indicated that the entire team carried similar expressions, except for Jack who just looked amused. Returning his attention solely on the Doctor, Ianto had to seriously wonder how the fuck this man could be responsible for such destruction.

Then again, who would have guessed Ianto Jones would have hidden a Cyberman in the basement of the Hub for a year or had wings when he put his mind to it?

Not exactly the most easily read.

Besides, the Doctor's eyes told a different story and he was no mere mortal.

"They do get a bit tetchy when they get hungry, tend to start absorbing any carbon-based object. Lost a coat to them once, walked in on a splicing ceremony with no gift. Take your team, offer to take the Mellaonians to a secluded coastline, they'll be happy and keep to themselves."

Ianto wondered if the Doctor realized he'd just ordered Jack about his own base, though Jack wasn't jumping to defend himself. Anyone else, and the Captain would have put them in their place, quite possibly with no memory of events and a distinct lack of testicles. Of course, it was the Doctor -- some vainglorious being who'd mesmerized Jack -- which seemed to discard all of what Ianto had identified as Jack Harkness' rules, up to and including abandoning one's team.

Irritated with the shift in thought, not to mention the lack of concern for him, the man holding the gun, as Jack and the Doctor carried on their conversation, Ianto felt the childish urge to fire the gun into the air, just to draw the Doctor's attention, and perhaps figure out how the hell he was going to proceed.

Petulance -- not just a human emotion, it would seem.

There was something more, there had to be. He couldn't kill the Doctor; not when there was no immediate threat to himself or team which necessitated death. He'd be no better than the mercenary Judoon, and the thought of such a connection was so revolting that Ianto felt physically nauseous. But what was he supposed to do?

"Oh no, and leave you to tinker around my base? Do I have to remind you of that time on Nythos?"

As Jack stubbornly crossed his arms in a standoff with the Doctor, Ianto realized that all was lost. Not lost, per say, but any hope of apprehending the Doctor for any of his outstanding charges or sending him away to protect the Earth from whatever destruction was trailing in his wake vanished with Jack's teasing tone. He didn't even know if he could _do_ anything given Jack's defense of the Doctor and his own refusal to admit the truth of who and what he was. It'd just be blamed on Torchwood One, or a recurrence of the nightmares before.

 _Before_. Gods, he acted like it was years ago, not weeks, since he'd learned that there was cause behind his visions and the terrors of the days.

Fuck, Jack might even go with the Doctor again.

With reservation, Ianto clicked on the safety and withdrew from his gun-ready stance, quietly stepping aside without pulling any attention to himself. There was nothing he could do at the moment in regards to the Doctor. Nothing. And while guilt and responsibility gnawed away at his resolution, he pushed it aside. Jack was the leader of Torchwood Three, and if he chose to go on a bloody chase for these Mellonians, Ianto would have everything ready that the team might need to transport or contain them.

It was his duty. Even if his personal duty felt absolutely shredded.

Owen's eyes tracked him as he moved, probably waiting for some indication of mental collapse. Maybe it was concern. Ianto couldn't care less as he began mentally tallying everything he needed to load in the SUV. SUVs. They should take two if it was a transport job...

"I won't be alone, Mr. Jones will keep me company."

Ianto stopped. Everyone stopped. If the Hub had a pulse, even that stopped as well. For having wanted attention earlier, the attention now was unnerving. No one focused their attention on the man who had actually voiced the pronouncement, which Ianto found distinctly unfair. It wasn't like he'd asked the Doctor to request he stay. If anything, he wished to be as far from the man as possible.

"It's probably not more than a three person job, right, Jack? I could stay here and monitor any police response ... "

"No." Jack cut Gwen off with an added sharp wave of his hand, surprising Ianto with the vehemence of his response as Ianto wasn't entirely sure the emotional response wasn't directed at him. Jack's stare certainly was, his eyes boring into Ianto's to the point he assumed there would be two holes at the back of his head from the intensity. But what Ianto had done to deserve any of it, he wasn't sure, though the tiny debacle with the gun had most certainly soured Jack's attitude towards him. However, Jack wouldn't have taken him to task in front of the team for it, would he? Ianto knew he was kidding himself, of course Jack would have; standard leadership practices were never really Jack's forte. "This requires the team, so I'll need you there. Ianto and the Doctor can stay back and update us as necessary."

He couldn't stop the wince at being so offhandedly dismissed from inclusion in the 'team', despite recent history indicating the contrary. It still stung, and as Ianto resolutely remained expressionless as Jack continued his unnerving stare, he felt the first temptations of doubt enter his thoughts regarding his place in Torchwood. Was he still around, memories intact, because Jack didn't trust Retcon to effectively wipe out the history of Torchwood from his mind? Was he there for amusement? Because no one else wished to clean the lavatories? Was his relationship with Jack -

No. Ianto categorically denied any such thought and banished it from his mind . While their relationship had fallen askew over the past days, Jack must trust him. Otherwise why he was permitting Ianto full access within the Hub and all systems if he doubted Ianto's loyalty? He was being monitored, but Ianto had to believe that was for concern of his safety, not because the rest believed him a threat to Torchwood.  

Still, Ianto couldn't help but acknowledge the unease and disappointment gnawing away at his insides.

Then again, he was lying to his team and to his ... to Jack. Perhaps he deserved it.

Jack moved first, though he never turned away. He just pointed in a general direction (the coffee machine, Ianto noted, and he certainly hoped that Jack wasn't going to instruct them to take the machine along with them as a gift to the Mellonians) with orders for Gwen to phone Rhys and borrow a lorry while they loaded up in the SUV. And still his eyes never left Ianto's, making Ianto desperately wish he could actually read Jack's thoughts so that he'd have some inkling as to what Jack was trying to impress upon him. Most likely along the lines of "if you shoot the Doctor I will hunt you down and you'll beg for mercy," but Ianto couldn't be certain of the tilted frown and lips smashed into a thin line, an expression of Jack's Ianto typically associated with visible restraint and masked agitation, not threat of harm. Threat of anything, really.

Oh, to have Tosh's necklace in this instance.

Ianto raised his chin -- defiance really his only viable option in face of absolute confusion -- and nodded as though he understood what the hell Jack meant in a gesture that reminded him far too much of his return from suspension following Lisa's death. Not since then had he been so uncertain of Jack's intentions, but the one thing he desperately latched on to was that Jack believed that he would not shoot the Doctor in his absence. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as it appeared, maybe Jack was just following whatever orders the Doctor had (not so) subtly laid out for Torchwood Three.

But damned if the lack of trust wasn't unfounded. He was lying to Jack, lying to the rest of the team. He was breaking every promise and betraying Jack quite possibly worse than he had with Lisa, because at least then he hadn't fought so hard to establish that confidence. As well, he should have mentioned his unease to Jack, in case there was an additional threat to the Hub. Ianto knew of at least fourteen protocol violations he was incurring by not saying anything despite awareness of a threat. But he couldn't, and most importantly, he knew he _wouldn't_.

"Jack..."

Ianto blinked in surprised as the natural sounds of the Hub battered him from all sides ones more, from the cascading water in the tower to the low whirrs of computer fans to Myfanwy rustling her wings in her aerie to Tosh's voice, quavering as she commanded Jack's attention. He'd lost himself and time within Jack's stare, and he was none the wiser for the action. Disgustingly unsettling, or perhaps that was the continued presence of the Doctor who would be upsetting him greater if not for the dampening touch softening the harsh edges of knowledge that had threatened to overwhelm him earlier.

Jack seemed just as surprised for the loss of time, however, and that soothed Ianto's pride just a bit as Jack's face remained like marble save for the twitch of his cheek, right near his eye, a suppressed grimace manifesting if one was as familiar with the man as Ianto. The hesitant step forward was something different, however, something new for Ianto's mind to rapidly process with all the other information circulating. Panic-threat, was Jack to stun him before he left? Tie him up to protect the Doctor? Warning? Confusion as he stopped, maybe reassuring hug though they were far from that point in their relationship, months ago, when Ianto may have believed it possible but the likelihood no longer probable. He'd done enough damage through his withdrawal from Jack that they never really touched.

Whatever it was vanished before Ianto could understand, the brief flash of openness buried beneath an artificial megawatt smile that lacked any warmth or honest emotion. "You two kids don't cause any trouble while we're gone." Ianto didn't move as Jack stepped forward in full confidence and typical captain arrogance -- the previous hesitation long forgotten -- and remained still even as Jack leaned forward to say whatever he intended for Ianto's ears only. "We'll talk, later. I want answers."

And for a moment, just a tiny fraction of a moment that tasted fleetingly of the swirling purple and jade lightning upon the pier, Ianto believed Jack was going to kiss him,there in front of the others and the Doctor. Jack was so close that Ianto could smell the coffee on his breath mingling with the hint of 51st century pheromones and he had to admit that combination fueled by intensity was heady as hell. On any other day, at any other time ...

Jack pulled away before Ianto could form a decision, or perhaps even a question, just the hint of thought of _missing Jack_ before it vanished with a pivot, a sharp angular turn towards the cog door and the team waiting impatiently for their leader to rush into the unknown once again to risk life and limb for the sake of Britain.

They kept doing it over and over, no questions asked, and Ianto wondered how long it would be before his team failed to reappear in full at day's end. The life of a Torchwood employee was short, and he nor Jack would always be there to protect. However on this day, Ianto believed the team far more safe out in the world fighting aliens than inside the Hub with two aliens they didn't know to hunt.

It would have amused Ianto if the truth wasn't so troublesome.

Ianto watched as the team filed out. Jack's great coat slipped past the cog door as it rolled to a close, symbolically cutting him off from his team, from the outside world, but at the same time an underlying thread of reassurance that the Doctor would remain contained within Torchwood, though Ianto didn't fool himself into believing that the Doctor couldn't leave when and where he damned well chose.

"They'll be fine, the Mellonians are generally a peaceful lot."

Spinning slowly on his heel, Ianto quickly calculated the distance from his person to the Doctor's based on the sound of his voice, reaching the unnerving conclusion that he was far closer than when Jack had left. He couldn't put a finger on it, the root of the anxiety setting every nerve aflame and hair on edge, but it was truly visceral, not imagined, as even his fingernails felt like they were curling in rejection of the Doctor. He'd felt it before, with Wesley, with various aliens Torchwood had encountered that had truly been deviant of nature, but Ianto couldn't reconcile the revulsion with the savior of worlds Jack had painted with his stories and respect. They didn't fit. They just _didn't_.

Before he finished rounding on the Doctor, Ianto applied the smile he used for difficult visitors to the Information Center. Jack trusted him not to shoot the Doctor while he was away; Ianto would honor him by his restraint. "Would you care for a coffee, sir?" Just as he'd figured, the man stood just a few steps away, staring at him with near the same intensity that Jack had earlier. For a frightening moment before he reassured himself, Ianto feared that somehow he'd changed back and his marks were showing.  
Contrary to what Ianto expected, the Doctor's face broke out into a broad smile that Ianto believed was actually truthful.

The Doctor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet in such fashion Ianto hadn't seen but on a giddy tot and the man ratcheted up in Ianto's 'disturbing' scale. "So you're the Ianto Jones I keep hearing about."

Ianto settled his hands on his hips and attempted to maintain an air of professionalism, despite the urge to rattle Jack for having apparently discussed him with the Doctor as well as the overwhelming craving to remove this current threat to Earth. It wasn't just a whim, he _knew_. Instinctual, perhaps? Odd, but not completely unexpected given his previous experiences. Disarming, for certain, as Ianto knew logically it was a function of who he had become, not who he once knew himself to be. And if that was no longer true, did he have any clue who he was currently?

Professionalism. He could maintain professionalism no matter how much his mind screamed at him that the figure in front of him was responsible for such horrible things. As it was, Ianto held his gaze to the left of the Doctor, just over his shoulder. Information still bled into his awareness like a punctured balloon, but at least the effect was tolerable. "It's possible, though the name is quite common. A tour of the base, then, if you prefer? I'm afraid the grand entrance was negated by your arrival within the Hub, but I'll attempt to compensate."

"You really don't like me, do you?" Ianto couldn't quite mask his wince as the Doctor side-stepped directly into the path of his eyes; grinning like a fool, which did nothing for Ianto's patience while he put on a pair of glasses with thick brown frames. At the rate the Doctor was going, Ianto wasn't quite sure there'd be pieces of the Doctor left before Jack's return. Not that he'd do anything himself, but Janet might find this particular type of alien tasty. "Why is that, Mr. Jones?"

The Doctor stepped into his field of vision yet again, a shift-step dance that seemed to amuse the Doctor more than it ought and Ianto began silently cursing the Doctor, his ancestors, and everyone remotely connected to the name. Including Jack. And even Martha, despite the woman's charms. "Liking you is irrelevant, otherwise I would not have hesitated to shoot you." Ianto smiled, though not at the Doctor but rather the memory his words dredged up. He wasn't proud of shooting Owen, but he would do it again, if necessary, for the sake of the world and for Jack. _For Jack_ , mostly, and that thought did frighten him a bit. "If you'd rather, I can take you to the surface."

"Nope! You're far more interesting." Despite his best efforts to remain emotionless, Ianto couldn't help it as his eyebrow rose in disbelief and cynicism while the Doctor spoke. The man was definitely mad, perhaps not in the same fashion as he had been diagnosed, but if Jack tolerated this lunacy, than why had he ever been committed? "Besides, it unnerves Jack to think about me roaming about his base so what point would there be in leaving it? Come then, Mr. Jones, Martha asked for my help for Jack's partner, though I'm rather surprised to find you here as she'd implied that you were, ah, in an alternate location for safe keeping. Partner? Is that the term used now? Partner ... lover ... husband ... ooh! The Kleetons on the planet Pyrhon -- lovely place, dreary weather -- they say, well, translated, 'heart'. Isn't that charming? In fact, I was there ... "

As the Doctor babbled -- Ianto really had no better term for the sheer deluge of words spilling forth from his mouth -- Ianto listened with half an ear focused on the actual content, but most of his attention was directed at what the Doctor was _doing_. He roamed while he talked, picking up various gadgets from everyone's workstations, inspecting them, sometimes prodding them with a finger before setting them down again with a seemingly careless lack of respect. Once he even brought out his sonic screwdriver, a name Ianto could have stated from his experience at Torchwood One without the name supplying itself within his mind. A directed 'zap' from the screwdriver and Ianto knew instantly that the device would work when Tosh returned. He didn't have to wait for Tosh's return however, as the Doctor smiled in boyish glee and flipped a switch Ianto assumed was the 'on' button. The Hub was instantly filled with light, nothing glaring or brilliant but a speckled rainbow of color like a million multi-faceted prisms shattering white light, which reflected off every surface, including a number of blotches decorating the Doctor's face and he assumed his own as well.

Ianto knew the name before the Doctor spoke.

"Altaran disco ball. Brilliant."

As he spoke the points of light moved, the colors changing in tempo with the pattern of the Doctor's voice. Ianto wasn't sure what disturbed him the most -- that disco wasn't limited to just earth, or that the Doctor found the promise of a billion dancing lights in ever-changing colors which followed rhythm and volume set to music as an enlightening experience. Ianto rather thought he himself would be suffering vertigo as a result in a matter of moments from just the vocally influenced pattern much less any rapid rhythm or changes in tone. He figured it was fairly easy to assume that the Altarans did not possess human vision or neural processing.

Then again, he didn't either. Or maybe he did. Ianto simply hadn't evaluated that yet.

Thankfully, the Doctor just as quickly turned the device off and returned it to Tosh's desk before Ianto could politely request the action. His head was already pounding from the tension and adrenaline and the dizzying lights were simply making it worse. Not that the Doctor appeared to be aware of or in any way concerned for Ianto's well-being; he rather believed the Doctor was actually only conscious of his own self but he firmly resolved not to speak of such things. Giving the thoughts room to breathe and grow within his mind would simply encourage a slip of the tongue at an inopportune moment and while the Doctor appeared almost childish in his apparent curiosity, Ianto knew him for what he was. Dangerous. _Deadly_.

"Don't!" The command slipped from his lips before Ianto could stop them, his hand out-stretched before he consciously evaluated the action and the response. But the Doctor's hand had stopped, poised a fraction of an inch above another device looking for all intents and purposes like an inert blob of metal, maybe a paperweight. "Don't touch that, sir."

The Doctor's expressionless face confused Ianto, it seemed to Ianto that the natural reaction to such a sharp request would be surprise and perhaps question, but the lack of anything at all led Ianto to believe the man simply didn't know what he was reaching out to touch or he didn't care. Or perhaps it was something else, Ianto's subconscious tickled a warning, no, not a warning, a suggestion. A hint or motivation. But no matter the reason, Ianto felt compelled to explain himself. "That's a Class C Ylpfaxorian subatomic particle disruptor, designed as a mine. It's deactivated right now and won't arm without its key, but if you zap it with your sonic screwdriver and alter the internal components, you risk detonating it. Sir." Ianto added, almost as an afterthought. _Test_ Ianto's subconscious was screaming at him as he watched the Doctor withdraw his hand yet never react to the information, which at the very least would have startled Ianto had he been the one receiving it.

"According to Ms. Sato," the Doctor began as he held up the clipboard containing Toshiko's preliminary notes on the device, his index finger quickly skimming over her handwriting, "the device has unknown origins and might be a weapon, might be a toaster."

It didn't take but a moment before Ianto realized his error, a quick wave of panic flashed over him before resolute logic replaced it. He plucked the clipboard from the Doctor's hands before the other man could comment and using a pen from Tosh's desk, quickly jotted down the words "weapon" and "subatomic particle disruptor mine" in the header while he casually lied about the source of his knowledge. "I've encountered blueprints for this device in the Archives; I wasn't aware we had a functional one on the premises."

With a polite, quick smile directed at the Doctor, he replaced the clipboard and stepped away from Tosh's desk, straightening the cuffs of his suit coat as he moved out of habit and for distraction. He didn't know if it'd work on the Doctor, but Jack had always refocused on the action, rather than the previous conversation. "Can I interest you in a cup of tea, sir?" Ianto kept a watchful eye on the Doctor now, uncertain whether he could trust the man to keep his hands to himself and not destroy the Hub in the process; a task made even more difficult with the disgust and anger still raging through him no matter the comforting presence within his mind. It was difficult and awkward, and above all, Ianto hated feeling that in what should have been the comfort of the Hub's sanctuary.

"You are a curious one, Mr. Jones." Ianto watched as the Doctor slipped the glasses from his face and into his pocket, an action Ianto believed had more importance than the innocent gesture purported. "Martha phoned me, left a message saying you had suffered an acute attack of a suspicious nature affecting your perception and awareness of reality. She was in a bit of a panic -- I might even go so far as to say she likes you, and if you have her respect then you have mine. Brave girl, saved you lot more than once, and she wondered if I knew anything that might have caused it or could treat it. I must admit, I've never heard of such a thing, not caused by an external source nor a psychological one so quickly reversed."

 _'Well, that was a kind way of saying I was hallucinating,'_ Ianto thought, though the smile he reserved for the most testing Information Center visitors never fell. He faintly remembered Tosh saying something about Martha phoning a friend for assistance while he had been at Providence, but for some reason he had never linked the friend to the Doctor. A misjudgment and failure on his part. "I can assure you, sir, that time of crisis has long since passed." He tried to calculate how much time had passed since Martha had phoned the Doctor, but could only be vague as time had lost much of its meaning within those walls. "Nearly two months have passed since she phoned, I'm afraid your presence is a bit ... " Unnecessary? Unwanted? Get the hell off my planet and never come back? None of the phrases were polite to say the least, and he had been raised far better than that. "... ill-timed."

To Ianto's annoyance, the Doctor just grinned broadly. "You really don't like me, do you Mr. Jones?" he repeated, and Ianto had nothing more to say than he had the first time the Doctor had spoken those words. So for sake of the (unwanted) guest in the Hub and for Jack, he remained silent. His silence seemed to do little to reduce the Doctor's unending exuberance however. "Well, then. Let's get to the TARDIS then, shall we? Martha will be asking for the results of a scan and I have no inclination to lie to Ms Jones. Jones. You two aren't related, are you? Oh, that'd be brilliant, can't think why I didn't ask before."

"No, we're not related," Ianto replied almost offhandedly as his mind whirled around what the Doctor had said, and more importantly, how to evade the matter entirely. Not that he lacked confidence with his own body to reveal any trace of alien -- every single test run by Owen (and Martha) to the extent of using alien scanning technology simply proved him human with nothing to the contrary. But ... Ianto knew that whatever the Doctor possessed would most likely not be in the same league of technology that Owen's was. In fact, the thought of the tech the Doctor might possess was downright chilling.

He'd be lucky if he didn't pass out as he had at Lester's from the overwhelming onslaught of new technology and all its uses given he'd be stepping into a bloody spacecraft..

Smiling, Ianto adopted the same tone he used when he was informing Jack of the day's schedule as he casually clutched his hands behind his back. For all he knew from Torchwood One, the Doctor could not see through solid matter and so his white knuckles would be hidden and he would have an outlet for any tension that might cause his voice to shake. Disturbing, how a year of hiding Lisa had taught him so much. "I thank you for the offer, sir, but a scan is unnecessary and I would hate to be a frivolous burden on your time."

"Nonsense, I insist!" The Doctor nearly bounced with excitement, a trend Ianto found both tiresome and engaging. To possess such a seemingly unending core of energy would make a fortune if bottled and sold on the market, and for a fleeting moment, Ianto wondered if the Doctor wasn't perhaps on some form of strong alien amphetamine. "Besides," the Doctor said as he spun, taking in the overhead flight of Myfanwy with a barely suppressed 'ooh!', "if I know Jack, he'll be reassured and less of a mother hen if I run some scans and settle any lingering questions." He stopped the spin precisely where he had started it, Ianto noted, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, displacing his overcoat in such a Jack fashion he had to wonder who was imitating who. But that question quickly evaporated as the Doctor's face grew far more serious than Ianto had seen since their 'guest' had arrived. "Why do you think Jack agreed to leave you alone with me?"

Ianto opened his mouth to respond and, to his shame, found he had no response to give. He quickly pressed his lips together and hoped the Doctor hadn't noticed. Logic leaned towards acceptance of the Doctor's question; Jack's actions were irrational at best, given the scene just minutes ago with Ianto armed and threatening the very same Doctor he had been left with. It was ridiculous to feel betrayed as he'd been guilty of lying to Jack for some time now. If Jack believed the Doctor would give him answers and it suspended the suspicion and the monitoring ... it could explain Jack's actions immediately before he left. The intense stare, nothing spoken just Jack trying to imprint ... something ... on Ianto before the team left. Ianto had set that aside within his mind to figure out at a less challenging time but perhaps .. fuck. He had no idea what the hell Jack had meant as nothing in the course of the past hour had been logical.

Applying logic didn't stop him from feeling the betrayal, deserved or not.

It also didn't stop the anger directed at the Doctor for using such dirty tactics to get Ianto to submit to the tests, a submission that seemed purely sought to satisfy the Doctor's curiosity.

Or maybe it was simply fear on his part that was fueling the stubborn refusal.

The Doctor's expression never changed, though Ianto was certain his eyes missed nothing of his inner debate, pitifully thin as it might have been. And for the moment, Ianto hated the man for more than the deaths and destruction that filled his mind. "Jack agreed because he believed I would not kill you in his absence," Ianto countered, feeling somewhat justified with the argument, and he knew it fully accurate, even if it failed to address the true question. But he ceded to the Doctor's point that perhaps with the Doctor's tests, maybe the cameras would be removed from his home at the very least. Not that he'd admit it. "Martha requested the scans?"

The Doctor lost his serious expression as quickly as he had adopted it, the resulting shift in tenor hard for Ianto to follow. "Still have the voice mail if you want to verify."

With a slight head shake, Ianto signaled that verification wouldn't be necessary; he didn't see a choice that wouldn't be akin to a neon blinking light screaming his deceit. He just hoped that whatever the tests revealed, that there would be no indication of anything 'wrong' with him, from an alien point or anything remotely connected to his mother's illness.

Both left far too many consequences and questions that Ianto wasn't prepared to deal with.

And while he trusted Jack, Ianto most certainly didn't trust this destroyer of worlds standing before him, no matter the crises he might have averted.

Resigned and mentally preparing himself for whatever he might see inside, Ianto followed the eager man to the doors of the blue police box.


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor opened the door with a flourish; presumably he took great pride in showing off the TARDIS. Ianto's thoughts regarding the Doctor took a secondary track, however, just flitting alongside awareness, as the calming pressure within his mind turned ... well, excited was the best he could describe it. As much as it was repressing his physical response to the Doctor, Ianto could feel his own nerves coil in knotted anticipation, mirroring the stranger within his mind, while beneath his suit, goosepimples prickled his skin.

Consciously drawing a deep breath, Ianto pressed his palm flat against the blue door.

It was just like the growing one in Jack's office, _she_ was just like the one in Jack's office, only ... _more_. Ianto stared at his hand until pale skin and veins blurred, no longer seeing but listening as she sang a welcome. It was a beautiful melody reverberating deep within Ianto's bones, haunting and exhilarating as her anthem flew, twisted and dove in pitches and tones he instinctively knew had no earthly origin and no apparent measure of time. Wrapping about him like water from the tropics, baked in the equatorial sun, Ianto felt completely immersed in the song, not that he'd stop it if he could. He couldn't recall the fear, much less revulsion, he'd experienced earlier. In fact, Ianto couldn't remember anything at all as within the melody he vanished, a mere fragment of thought drifting with the melody.

 _Beautiful._

But it was so much more; even his thoughts couldn't describe the scope of what he was hearing to himself and he certainly wouldn't ever be able to explain it if asked. The music _lived_. No, Ianto corrected himself, the music simply existed, as it always had when the stars began and as it would when they dimmed.

She had a voice, whereas the one -- immature? young? -- in Jack's office lacked the personality, lacked the spirit though, Ianto could still see the possibilities in comparison. This TARDIS ... she was old, maybe ancient, though whether her age came from a time in the future or the past, Ianto couldn't tell. But he had to smile as the tone shifted to almost ... one of mischief. Playful, perhaps.

"Ianto?"

Consciously blinking as sound disturbed the focus of his mind, Ianto forced himself to shift his attention from the TARDIS to the speaker who wasn't glaring but seemingly intrigued for all he was casually leaning in the blue doorway.  

How long had he been standing outside the TARDIS? And more importantly, Ianto wondered just what he may have given away by not following the Doctor inside, to the extent that the Doctor was calling him by his first name?

Focus. He needed to focus before something went horribly wrong.

"Just wait till you see the inside." The Doctor was all boyish grin and if Ianto didn't know better, he'd say the Doctor was as anxious as he awaiting Ianto to set foot inside the TARDIS, but for probably vastly different reasons. He reminded Ianto of the few times he could remember his father and he buying a little trinket for his mother for Christmas. It was never anything grand, he understood now, but Ianto could remember being barely able to contain himself in anticipation of his mother's face when she opened the gift. Her expression had meant everything, did even when she was too confused or lost within herself to fathom why the gift, much less who the giver was. But Ianto had always waited, excited and anxious, seeking approval he supposed.

Kind of made him wonder about what sort of approval the Doctor sought, if the expressions were analogous.

With a sharp nod that Ianto hoped revealed nothing of his thoughts or his wonder at the TARDIS, he stepped closer to the door before waiting for the Doctor to precede him. It was his ship to show off, after all.

Ianto wasn't disappointed in the least.

He'd known, somehow -- maybe he'd read it in a file at Torchwood One -- that the TARDIS had interior dimensions unrelated to the apparent physical shape of the exterior. She was impressive all the same, seemed to almost be preening as he took in the .. bridge? Just one step across the threshold had led Ianto into a place so unlike any he'd seen and he resisted every urge to step back outside and review the dimensions of the police box to reaffirm what he was seeing. He understood the concept to a limited extent, and so while his eyes scanned over every surface and took in everything from the scattered technology (some foreign even to the scrolling data within his mind) to the graceful architecture of the TARDIS, Ianto kept himself still, hands clasped behind his back, absorbing everything he saw to define and understand (and perhaps question) later.

She was grand, he had to give her that. And his acknowledgment seemed to amuse the quiet song still humming in his mind.

The Doctor waited for him just beyond the central column, in the doorway of what appeared to be a hallway leading deeper into the TARDIS and what Ianto assumed were various rooms, one of which would be the medical facilities. Waited and ... awaited, it appeared. For what, Ianto had no clue, but knowing the erratic nature demonstrated thus far by the Doctor it could be anything from a declaration of love to an admiration for the color scheme, though Ianto was fairly certain that was more the TARDIS' selection than the Doctor's.

Ridiculous. He was standing in a TARDIS and he was contemplating the decor.

"Bigger on the inside." The Doctor's voice, ringing with pride, failed to echo despite the deceptive open framework, Ianto noted, an intriguing property that defied most physical assumptions. Something to do with the coral-like structure, like the baby TARDIS on Jack's desk? Or, as the TARDIS grew, did they shed skins or metamorphise like a butterfly, changing states from one to the next through a transformative period?

Rather like his own situation, Ianto quietly chided himself. He adopted his placating smile, the one he used as Jack would go on telling stories he had already told Ianto, knowing full-well that Jack's purpose in telling the stories were often more for his benefit than Ianto's. Seemed the repetition helped banish whatever ghosts haunted him. "Of course," Ianto replied with some amusement; maybe he should have shown a little awe and wonder as he'd stepped inside? But he'd already heard the TARDIS standing right outside the door; he didn't think that there would be much more that would truly strike him with awe after experiencing her on that level. Then again, that wasn't the 'normal' response to the TARDIS, if the Doctor's reactions were anything to go by. Fuck it all, he was horrible at the normal stuff around alien tech and beings. "I hardly believed two could stand comfortably within a police box, much less two who had previously threatened violence upon the other person."

Ianto swore he heard laughter within his mind, but that was simply not possible.

Except when it was.

He understood that the TARDIS was helping him, softening his physical response to the Doctor's presence and all the destruction by his hands. He simply could not comprehend _why_.

Ianto did find himself entertained by the thought of making the Doctor peevish, however, if his crestfallen appearance was any indication. If Ianto couldn't kill him, arrest him, banish him, lock him up or any of the various things he instinctively wished to do, he could at the very least irritate the man who was using him to satisfy a personal curiosity.

And then maybe he would leave before any danger followed. Ianto found himself preferring that option more and more as time progressed; maybe the Doctor would leave before the Earth was threatened. "Do you have medical facilities, sir?" Ianto asked before the Doctor could say anything; the quicker they moved on, the quicker they would be done with this nonsense. "Or do you have the devices in this area?"

"You surprise me, Mr. Jones." The Doctor was definitely disappointed, Ianto noted with some sense of satisfaction, no matter how childish. With a wave and no hesitation or waiting to see if Ianto would follow, he turned down the hall, chattering as he went. "This way, then. At least I think it's this way, the TARDIS might have moved the room since last it was used. Not much need of it myself, but it is useful..."

The Doctor continued his monologue of empty anecdotes as they walked; Ianto mostly tuned them out for filler as they took one hall and then another, multiple doors opened and shut before he could see what was inside, an action that he theorized was more to pique intrigue rather than anything secretive hidden inside. Or perhaps not, but he did believe the Doctor devious enough to try.

"Ah! Here we are."

Ianto followed the Doctor into a room which looked ... as un-medical facility as he could imagine. Not that it wasn't sterile -- he was fairly certain that not a single microbe was any where it shouldn't be in the room. It was simply ... bare. Oh, there was an exam table in the center of the room, lit by an unseen light from above. And it was far above, the ceiling stretched upwards much as the 'bridge' area had, all colored in a similar peach, which was a bit of a relief from what Ianto dreamt about white walls, four corners and a sensation of being caged; either the Battle of Canary Wharf or Providence Park as they seemed to vacillate between the two nightmare scenarios. But there was nothing else in the room, just the exam table shroud in light.

It reminded Ianto far too much of horror movies for his liking, the serial killer spotlighting his place of work, with probably a camera or two hidden near the ceiling. Not in corners, this room was rounded. And empty. Just ... empty. What kind of medical facility was this?

"This really is unnecessary," Ianto said, doing his best to keep any anxiety out of his voice. Was the Doctor even really a doctor? This was absurd; he was willingly submitting to some kind of exam by the same man who fled while Torchwood One still burned and whose list of grievous accomplishments began anew every time Ianto looked at him. .

"Bah! Nonsense. Hop up on the table." The Doctor whirled around from the wall near the door, what appeared to be a tablet computer in his hand and some sort of ... pen device. Visions of alien probes from science fiction movies replayed in quick fashion, something Ianto sincerely hoped were not part of the planned exam and something he would most certainly protest. It was ridiculous, really, panicking over what appeared to be an innocuous device. He nearly laughed at himself until he remembered the control he so valued and what could be perceived from unexplained laughter.

He didn't really think the Doctor would understand the joke .

With as much composure as he could manage, Ianto pushed himself up on to the table as he would sitting on a kitchen counter. Reassurance filled his mind, though whether it was his doing or the TARDIS' Ianto couldn't be sure, but he never stopped assuring himself that the tests would show he was human, just as the tests Owen and Martha ran proved that he was human. There was nothing to worry about, no need for panic. He'd sit through these tests and be done with the Doctor.

"Raise your right hand."

The Doctor peered over his glasses, waiting for Ianto to comply with the request, and despite how little it made sense, Ianto raised his right hand. A trickle of thought crept into his mind, nothing that Ianto would allow to solidify into much more than just a notion, but for a fleeting moment as he did as the Doctor asked and next raised his left hand, Ianto considered adding Lisa to the Doctor's list of deaths.

It was wrong and untrue, but for just a fraction of a second, he rejoiced in the idea of having someone to blame, for allaying his guilt and placing it on the Doctor. Just one more name to the incredible list of charges, a list of thousands upon thousands; one name wouldn't matter as much as the feeling of relief and direction would to Ianto.

The taste of temptation while he inhaled at the Doctor's request was sweet.

But on the demand for an exhale, Ianto knew he wouldn't do it. Not for the Doctor's sake, but his own.

"Right. That's not going to work. Can you loosen your tie?" Blinking at the Doctor's question, Ianto tried to understand what the hell his tie had to do with any sort of testing the Doctor might be running with the tablet and pen thing. The pen hovered in the vicinity of his neck while the Doctor waited for him to comply, something Ianto wasn't exactly inclined to do as he simply didn't trust the other man. It was a tie, just fabric. Not like the scanning device didn't have to go through layers of tissue. "And unbutton the first two buttons on your shirt. It's interfering with the scan."

Jack was the only person whom Ianto couldn't always discern was lying, though most times his instincts were fairly accurate. He reluctantly added the Doctor to the limited list as he waited impatiently for Ianto to do as requested. Ianto waited just a moment longer to see if the Doctor so much as twitched, but when that failed, he gave up and tugged at his tie (dark cranberry, his 'Tuesday' or 'Calm the Visiting UNIT Representative' tie, whichever name was applicable for the day) and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt to allow the Doctor access for ... whatever scans still needed to be done.

"Excellent. You have remarkable finger dexterity, Mr. Jones."

Ianto quickly stifled the inelegant snort of either disbelief or amusement -- he wasn't quite sure which emotion fueled the reaction. But Jack had once said something similar, although the scenario in which those words were spoken was vastly different.

"Now, stand on your left foot and hop once."

His eyes narrowed on the Doctor as the man side-stepped away from the exam table, almost as though he was expecting a reaction like the instinctual foot-to-the-groin that flashed across Ianto's mind. Maybe he would reconsider adding Lisa's name to the Doctor's list of crimes against Universal Law. But he had more self-control than what the Doctor expected of him and simply curled his fingers around the edge of exam table in a grip that would surely dent the warm metal. "I can't imagine any possible medical reason for such a demonstration."

Whatever expression he held, Ianto believed it just served to entertain the Doctor, whose grin stretched from ear-to-ear as he began tapping the pen on the tablet. "Of course not. Scans started once you walked into the room. Just wanted to see if I could get you to loosen your tie."

Furious did little to describe his ire as Ianto stiffly re-buttoned his shirt and cinched the tie back into place, an action which took him twice as long as necessary due to the thousand curses in various languages scrolling rapidly though his mind, all the things he wished to say about the Doctor's personhood, his ancestors, and quite possibly even extending to the Doctor's (neutered) sexual performance.

He said nothing, however, reining himself in with the practiced control of both caring for his mother and dealing with those who wished to mock. Those skills had served him as well at both Torchwoods as they did now.

His temper had always been his control, though that had been increasingly frayed of late.

"Hmm." The Doctor's scowl and the rapid increase in the staccato-tapping of what Ianto now believed to be a stylus on the tablet computer were worth his silence and control. Finally, the Doctor looked up with an expression of such perplexity that Ianto filed the memory away for further amusement when perhaps the coffee roast he preferred was out of stock. Or when Myfanwy ate something that disagreed with her digestive system. Or for no significant reason at all, just amusement's sake. "You're human."

Ianto fought to keep the victorious smirk from his face, the one he used often in the presence of Owen. Now that this nonsense was over, perhaps the Doctor would leave, everyone would be satisfied with the results and the monitoring would cease. A lot of maybes, Ianto knew, but the team would hardly have an excuse to maintain the surveillance if it came from a 'reputable' (at least, unquestionable) source that Ianto was human, healthy and nothing was to be feared. "You seem surprised," was the most diplomatic thing Ianto could think to say.

"No. Well, yes." The tablet was flipped upside down, and Ianto wasn't exactly sure how that was going to change the results of the diagnostics, but he kept his mouth shut as the Doctor tapped the stylus against his lips while he, for all appearances, thought. "DNA indicates 21st century human, born in the 20th. And perfectly healthy. No chromosomal abnormalities...no mutations in the mitochondria..." The Doctor frowned again and righted the computer in his hands -- though for all Ianto knew he could be reading it sideways or upside down -- and angled it to achieve better lighting. "No indication of neural decay, now that's unnatural for an ape of your age and era..."

Perhaps his desire to appear human had some kinks to be worked out. "If you've nothing further and as your results say I'm healthy, might we return to the Hub? I've some filing I'd like to complete before end of day."

"Doesn't explain your ... " The Doctor's voice trailed off as he stared at the data in his hands, apparently trying as hard as he may to derive answers from the apparent lack of anything abnormal. Ianto didn't really care how long he stared at the results, so long as he left immediately upon Ianto's exit from his ship. "Though, I don't suppose ... no, no abnormal activity ... " He continued to mutter various half-sentences and possibilities, but each time Ianto cheered just a little when he cut himself off, discontinuing the line of thought when the scan results disproved it. Eventually the mutterings stopped, and the Doctor glanced up with a smile that Ianto had to question the sincerity of. "Well, Mr. Jones, I guess congratulations for your good health are in order."

Before Ianto could decide whether a 'thank you' or an 'I told you so' was preferable under these circumstances, a whirling, grinding sound flooded the room, echoing off the high ceiling. Or perhaps it was more an internalized echo for all it bounced off Ianto's nerves, winding them to an anxious pitch until Ianto swore the floor even vibrated.

Or maybe it was.

From the Doctor's expression, he wasn't alone in his confusion.

"What?"

Ianto scowled as his voice and the Doctor's posed the same question, but any hope for an answer was was cut off (and ignored) as the Doctor turned and sprinted out the door. Quickly following suit, as he had no intention on getting lost in the maze of corridors they took to arrive at the medical room, Ianto ran after, trailing the Doctor and mimicking almost every lurch and collision with a wall as the TARDIS' physical stability was seriously brought into doubt.

No fear -- not yet at any rate. But Ianto counted for the second time that day the tempo of his racing heart in response to the unexplained. He'd collapse for certain by the end of the day, dead to the world as exhaustion claimed him.

The distance they ran was much shorter than their initial travel through the hall -- or maybe Ianto was descending into a bit of a panic despite his self-assurance to the contrary -- and he stumbled onto the bridge as the TARDIS shifted again, the patterned whirring sound matching the tempo of the plunging central column, and if not for the frantic pace of his mind he would have laughed as an imaginary Jack made a lewd comment regarding the TARDIS and space/time ...

Of course, Jack wasn't with them on the TARDIS, nor did Ianto have any idea what he should be doing as the Doctor jumped from station to station, pushing buttons and pulling levers all while interjecting a few choice phrases which may not have been foul language, but were curses all the same.

He wasn't panicking. He wasn't.

And maybe if he kept lying to himself, he could pretend he didn't have a clue what was going on and that they weren't traveling from one point in space to another, without the Doctor's apparent permission or involvement, and most importantly, without _his_.

He was with the Doctor. He was traveling _with_ the Doctor. The man who had wrecked so much destruction upon the known universe and he was trapped in a bloody police box with the man.

Ianto grabbed a railing and clung to it as he seriously considered whether motion sickness tabs for interstellar travel were a marketable item. Depended on the constitution of the consumer, he supposed, and the general affordability of space travel combined with the frequency that one flew. Flew? Was the verb "flew" appropriate in space as one was technically moving through a vacuum, not air, and so aerodynamic physics held no meaning on either the shape of the object traveling or the manner in which one traveled.

Fuck, he couldn't breathe. What if none of the air that was in the Hub traveled with them? Was the TARDIS air-tight? Did it need to be?

Ianto gave up on the flimsy premise of pretending he wasn't scared out of his mind and rejected all attempts to calm his thoughts by the TARDIS.

Well, shit. Jack was going to be displeased when he got back and had to clean out the SUV by himself.

***

Minutes ... hours ... fuck if Ianto could tell how much time passed. All he knew was that if he wasn't grabbing onto the railing, his hands would most likely be visibly trembling. But at least the violent slides of the TARDIS had subsided, as had the rhythmic grinding sounds. In fact, if Ianto were to be asked he would say they had arrived at whatever their intended destination and were parked.

It was peaceful, the absence of chaos.

He was the only one enjoying it, however. Ianto watched as the Doctor dashed for the console on the far side of the central column, typing furiously into the keyboard while he talked to himself.

Curious bad habit, talking to one's self. He'd point out that it could be a sign of mental instability but Ianto didn't think the Doctor would appreciate the comment right now.

While the Doctor was distracted, Ianto edged closer to the door; if they had landed elsewhere on Earth, he could at least escape and catch a flight home. That idea was preferable to spending any more than the required time with the Doctor for medical purposes, time which had run out the moment his scans had turned up clear and the TARDIS had moved. If they were elsewhere in the galaxy, well, Ianto was willing to believe that his chances for survival and eventual return to Jack increased exponentially the further he was from the Doctor.

Though the same could be said about lifespans and Torchwood, but Ianto refused to allow that thought to cross his mind.

"No, no, no, that's impossi-" The Doctor put a finger to his chin, tapping it three times before he spun on his heels and faced Ianto directly; terribly unnerving as Ianto had been attempting to be discreet as he moved. He removed the glasses while he talked, taking care to fold them gently before tucking them into his pocket. "But nothing's impossible, is it, Mr. Jones? Is that even your name? I prefer John Smith myself, but that's just a derivative, isn't it?"

"Wh-what?" Ianto couldn't stop the stammer as he drew his hands away from the railing, instinctively taking a step _away_ from the Doctor. It wasn't that he was afraid of the Doctor, or maybe he was. He knew what the man could do and he was trapped on his bloody ship with him. But what he was more afraid of what the Doctor appeared to _know_ , or at least what he assumed to know. The computer he had been looking at told him _something_. "My name is Ianto Jones, it always has been."

"I don't believe you." The Doctor actually took a step forward ('stalking his prey' was more apt a description, he could even see the tiger ready to pounce) before stopping a body length away from where Ianto stood, arms crossed and looking deceptively calm. It was his eyes that belied any moderate intent -- Ianto saw fury of a thousand ages but he didn't know _why_. Tickling at the edges of his mind, he could feel the TARDIS attempting to, what, apologize? Soothing, like she was attempting to calm a cornered beast. Well, that's sure as hell what Ianto felt like, and he hoped she was trying to do the same thing to the one cornering him. "I know what you are. Where is your _H'd-toba_? Did you leave them behind as well when you abandoned your kind?"

Running the name over the various languages he had a loose understanding of, Ianto came up empty for anything resembling a translation. Given that it was most likely an alien name (one that his mind helpfully supplied a definition in equally garbled tongue), Ianto wasn't surprised that nothing on Earth resembled the name.

But that didn't disturb him so much as what the Doctor was implying. While he may not be as brave as Jack (or any of the team, for that matter), he was no coward. And he would never, _ever_ abandon his team. Or family. Of that he was certain.

Resolve drowned out any fear he had in those few moments with the Doctor -- a terror he half blamed on their little sojourn to wherever they had landed -- and he built a shield of defiance around himself. He would die before abandoning his team; he would rather risk his life and freedom to save his girlfriend as Torchwood London fell than flee at the first given opportunity, instead of seeing the consequences of actions.

The Doctor may not have been responsible for Yvonne Hartmann's decisions to encourage and study the ghost shifts, but he sure as hell showed no courage in helping the innocent who still lived after the fall.

A man should not throw stones when he himself is made of glass.

Facing the Doctor was never an easier task, his back straight as he would have worn to any Torchwood One meeting, or on occasion he was required to attend a meeting with Jack in the presence of Her Majesty (he'd worn his most expensive tailored suit that day; Jack had shown no regard for the finery when he later threw the jacket on the floor). Not that he was no longer on the Doctor's 'turf' as it were, but he was no longer cowed. "I don't know what _H'd-toba_ means, but my name is Ianto Jones and I have never abandoned a soul I did not first try to save."

"You don't know ... " Ianto swore he could see the gears visibly spinning in the Doctor's head as confusion ate away at the livid expression until all that remained was, what, frustration? Pity? No, maybe empathy; the man had no answers but understood that he didn't understand. Or maybe he did, and Ianto was the one in confusion. But he couldn't be that far wrong about himself. He knew little of his alien origins, he knew even less about where they came from, how they lived or how the Doctor might know them, but he knew who Ianto Jones was.

What the Doctor believed of him held no importance as Ianto knew full-well _who_ the Time Lord was.

Ianto took advantage of the Doctor's softening, thoughtful expression and felt for the handle on the door. It wasn't too great a stretch, and beyond, well, he didn't know what lands lay beyond, but he knew he wouldn't be forced to share such close quarters with the man who claimed he knew who and what Ianto was. 

It wasn't a trick of any sorts to turn the handle, it was even less of a challenge to turn on his heel as he pulled open the door.              

It was, however, a great feat to ignore the Doctor's shouted, _"Ianto, don't!"_ , a voice which brokered no argument, but Ianto disagreed anyway.

Lifting his eyes to the outside world, Ianto stared into darkness lit by thousands upon thousands of stars, stars and splattered galaxies spinning across a far sky, stars and the sheer absence of light filling pockets of space where nothing breathed and everything died, stars and the quiet shades of planets darkening their brilliance by their passing, revolution upon revolution marking a passage of time on a small scale in comparison to the stretching spans of millennia tracing the paths of lives once lived.

And just outside the TARDIS' door, lazily spinning, were thousands- no, millions of rocks. Asteroids. Dancing a massive spatial dance with inertia leading while everyone else followed, spinning and twirling, occasionally bumping but never still in the relatively slow-moving skirt decorating the legs of a brilliant yellow star.

Thousands, no, millions of rocks in a swath of destruction, the rippling wake of a catastrophe Ianto couldn't explain but felt so viscerally he knew the name without ever having to see its face ...

 _Halcyon_.  


	4. Chapter 4

_Halcyon_.

Ianto froze. Not that he actually felt the cessation of movement, nor did the conscious decision to stop register in his thoughts. He was aware, but only in the sense that what he saw became all that he knew for the eternity it took to crawl across his optic nerves, into his brain, and be processed as vision, not memory.

But it wasn't vision, it was memory.

No, it couldn't be. Wasn't possible.

Except when it was.

He blinked, once. At least he thought that's all he blinked, though it felt slow as the maple syrup spilling from a chilled, broken jar. Ianto just watched as she mistakenly put the jar in the fridge, second shelf with the marmalade and lemon juice, only days after his father died. He watched his mother as she did it, cause it'd be funny to see her face when she tried to pour it. And he was angry, but he'd never tell his mother that. Angry that his father wasn't coming home. Angry at the stupid driver of the other car. Angry with the cops who'd come to the door and made his mother cry. Except when she did try to pour it she screamed and threw the jar. Hit the window frame, broken jar fragments dripping maple syrup on the kitschy gold-leafed angel wings. He cleaned it up, that day and the next and every day after, but he still saw cold maple syrup, curling slowly over the jagged edges, spilling maple syrup from a chilled jar.

Ianto didn't remember opening his eyes, but he must have as he scanned the horizon, the skies stained a glorious purple-green as Zhar-Ptitsa set for her nightly slumber. He turned towards the south, the lingering rays stretching fingers for the heavens, pulling a blanket of stars and darkness behind her as she lay for sleep behind the spires of S'l-Isonae.

The waning light glinted off the towers and archways, surrounding their city in a glowing halo framed by the purple-green sky. "Beautiful," he whispered quietly while he rooted the memory within his mind; a sight never to be forgotten no matter fate nor time.

Only right that some beauty exist today.

 _They_ were coming.

Alarms had sounded during the Midday Passing and preparations for the final engagement had begun immediately.  Those scattered across space and time were heralded and abandoned their missions with little doubt as to the purpose of their return.  All were needed for the battle; even those who had chosen lifestyles free of orders and rules or those who had forgotten their duties.

Everyone, even the young Initiates, for they could not lose this fight.  The alternate horrors were too heinous to consider viable, no matter what others believed.  Passivity would not emerge victorious against their enemy, and there were some among their ranks who believed even with the full ranks of the Coteries they would not succeed

Darkness appeared to flutter as all gathered on the West Plains, forces flying in from the far corners of Halcyon to unite as one weapon against _them_.  The L'ranore Veil was thinnest here, demarcation just a whisper of a thought from existence beyond.  They would make their stand here, where they would be strongest.  

Gather they did.

Upon the fields they stood, wing to wing, proud and noble in their defense and for once, the individual Coteries were lost within the whole.  Black next to brown, white wing touching blue until the grounds were an artist's palate dropped and splattered, mixing and blending until even the Crests became mere lines scribbled upon the surface.  From his vantage he could see so many of the beautiful species within the Universe represented, so broad was the Windhover touch.

So hard they had tried to bring peace and justice. 

How great they might fall.

He felt his H'd-toba's presence before he saw her, alighting quietly beside him in a trick he'd never learned despite an entire existence together.  His Brakiaan tail always hit the ground first, no matter how he flew, something that amused her terribly despite her attempts to teach him how she did it. 

They were not laughing now, the H'd-tobi pair, and neither were the thousands of others as in unison they looked to the starry heavens.  A vessel approached Halcyon; their enemy.  Not any enemy but a threat to the integrity of all space and time.  Perhaps not yet a visible danger, but soon.  Soon but too late for the Windhover lost, vanished with no warning or clue as to their disappearance except that they simply ceased to be.  Some Coteries had been devastated; his had been lucky, so far.  But the Brakiaan's were not a lot destined for the stars, much preferring the humid tropics of their home-world to space travel so perhaps little attention had been focused on the tiny system in search of his Coterie.

Made no difference now, all of the Coterie from all the different worlds throughout all of time were no longer separate but joined together at the L'ranore Veil which already crackled with the pull of the existence beyond.  Together they would ensnare the approaching vessel, sentence all within by rule of Law and banish the threat from this Universe until such time as they could be released again in peace.

They waited, patiently.

His H'd-toba grabbed his hand for balance as the Veil stretched further, a jade-sliver of jagged light opening wide from the ground to the stars as the crimes of the enemy were read.  Codes of the Shadow Proclamation broken, Universal Law ignored and willfully violated.  The millions aboard this vessel were not all guilty of all charges, but they could not risk individual sentencing for due crimes. 

A bright orange light appeared in the sky; not the vessel itself or meteor, but rather something terrifying and unexpected as it crackled in countertune to the L'ranore Veil, canceling its existence with a scream in mirrored waves to their own. 

They had not prepared for this.                    

***

 _"No!"_

Ianto recoiled, limbs collapsing towards his body like a marionette with all the strings violently pulled as his mind screamed the word over and over. Or maybe it wasn't his mind; vibration patterns on his legs indicated he might just be saying the words aloud. Not that he cared; words spoken in an barren forest had no more meaning than the one speaking them who applied the context to the sounds. Maybe. Or maybe it was his heart, jackhammering against his ribcage. Soon it'd break free, race off to curl fetal and weep until sorrow consumed all that was left while he'd jealously stare after it, watching it twist and shrivel into a mass of nothing; a dark bleak nothing which had no end or beginning but simply existed within the span of history. Tensing his arms while ignoring their quaking, Ianto squeezed his knees closer to his chest, forehead boring into knees just to contain his heart if it did escape.

Didn't help. Maybe it did. Could it?

He deliberately didn't think, deliberately didn't move, deliberately did nothing at all. Or maybe he did, he couldn't tell. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't feel; disconnected and dropped free-fall. Or maybe not. Fingers curled around his legs, his fingers, clenched so tight they might snap but they were holding him together before he could completely unravel. He'd a sweater once, snagged on a nail and tore a thread. Zip, right down from the collar until a ladder remained, horizontal bars missing their binding weave. He felt bare like that, an empty ladder with nowhere to climb; if he'd reach the top he'd just reach for more rungs climbing down, an endless loop where he moved but gained no ground until he no longer even remembered the point from which he'd began. Did that mean he hadn't moved at all?

He had. Moved. Only he hadn't. Didn't remember it. But there were seven hundred threads per square inch telling his lips emphatically that he had. Lips still moving, still repeating the word over and over, crossing great distance while never straying from the single dampening spot against his legs. Seven hundred threads.

Ianto stopped. Only his body kept moving, a useless waste of energy as the action was not efficient nor was it productive as his shoulders shook - movement - but achieved no distance to separate him from where he sat and where he could be. Not shaking, convulsing. Unconscious action driven by grief he couldn't understand and yet felt so innately it was more than just him, it was everything he ever would be. Or maybe it was not him at all, but an existence all its own, claiming his body as a path for its expression.

Maybe.

Something shared it with him, sang a song of sorrow as it wove in and out of his core until it laced up the unraveled ladder, his endless climb to nowhere halted when the rungs vanished beneath his hands and feet. Cradled, like an infant. Maybe he was, and everything he remembered was just a dream. No life, no Lisa, no Torchwood, no Jack.

 _Jack._

Bough broke at the name, cracked with a _snap_ , but didn't fall. Not a dream, dreams didn't fracture with a name. At least he didn't think they did. Would. Maybe? Or not, as the song would have it, pushing the discord behind her as the melody continued along space and time, while neither had meaning they meant everything, which made little sense to Ianto as he followed. Flowed. Smooth as seven hundred threads per square inch on a bed that never moved.

Only when it did, to which it was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Bed. He was on a bed, head pressed to his knees while his shoulders shook with the sobs now quieting as the pain of the memory drifted back into nothing. That's what it had been: memory. Only it hadn't. Real? Couldn't have been real; memories were real only to those who gave the memory context, and he had no context for those memories, just an empty forest.

But she hymned that it was real. Note upon note of sorrow and grief blending with solitude until the song was no longer music but her life. The TARDIS. She joined him, or maybe he joined her; Ianto couldn't quite tell. Definitely a bed; it was soft beneath his arse. And seven hundred threads pressed a fine pattern into his forehead, so tightly woven it'd show up as one instead of hundreds. But he knew all were there, every weft and every warp.

Tea. He smelled _tea_.

He wanted to move, to look for the source of the smell, but found he couldn't, passive thought insubstantial to command when subconsciously he wished to remain curled fetal, twisting and withering away as sorrow consumed all that was left. He'd stopped, frozen, save for the involuntary shaking he swore no control over. Or maybe he did.

Ianto focused, deliberately thought, deliberately commanded, deliberately forced himself to move. To breathe. To calm the shakes, which muted into shivers and while still involuntary at least he had more control. She helped, or at least she tried. He could feel her wanting to help, which amused him slightly in that she was the cause. Source? No, just the cause, the source was something else, something different and yet the same.

Maybe. Or maybe cause and source were not so much the same as it was a necessity.

Inevitability?

Prescribed.

  
Concentrating, Ianto forced his fingers to relax, their grip on his legs slacking until he no longer believed their combined strength would shred his skin despite the sheets. Seven hundred threads per square inch; fine bedding he could appreciate. Shivers still chased up and down his spine but he felt like he could move, and he did, at least he thought he did. Maybe. Or maybe he didn't and only his perspective of the room changed, entirely possible but he wouldn't know until he opened his eyes.

Ianto discovered he was slightly surprised that his eyes were closed. He hadn't shut them, had he? He remembered blinking and cold syrup ...  
   
With a drawn breath that shivered in tempo with his body, Ianto ordered his eyes open, commanding all the fine muscles in the lids to contract despite the overwhelming desire to remain hidden within the darkness, tucked away from all things within the cocoon of his mind. Only he hadn't been secure, had he? The pain still lingered, tainting the hallows with a sorrow the TARDIS shared.

"So you've come back to us, Mr. Jones." Ianto recognized the voice, and slowly he focused on the blurred figure in front of him. No, to the side, on his right. Seated? Ianto could almost feel his brain processing what his eyes were seeing, knowing precisely the moment when identity was provided. _The Doctor_. If he weren't already numb, Ianto was fairly certain he would have flinched at the recall. "Wasn't so sure we wouldn't lose you to _then_.  I really was not looking forward to explaining that to Jack."

He had no idea what the Doctor was talking about, but he understood enough to realize the Doctor _knew_. "They're all dead," Ianto stated rather than asked, knowing the answer before the words ever left his lips. But he'd known that, hadn't he? Halcyon had been destroyed. Or maybe he had just hoped that with the destruction, some had survived. Maybe a few. At least enough to tell him who and what he was. He knew better now; he'd seen it. He'd _felt_ it.

They were all dead. All of the Windhovers. He'd just witnessed their death.

Which was impossible.

Except when it wasn't.

"Yes." The Doctor's response was brief, but deep regret stretched the single word into a story so ancient Ianto wondered if it pre-dated the Doctor or if the Doctor was simply that old to remember what once had been. Not that it mattered since the answer remained unchanged.

Ianto felt the muscles in his shoulders instantly relax, like his body had simply been waiting for confirmation and now there was no cause to battle against what he'd seen. They were dead. All of them. His body melted in on itself, maybe exhausted but definitely weary, worn out and battered by things he didn't understand and his mind could only comprehend on a level so infinitesimal he knew if he gave it more thought in his current state he'd fall off the wall and shatter, with no kings or horses to put him back together. Impossible, since they were all _dead_.

A millennia ago or yesterday relative to now, Ianto knew it didn't matter and it was all he could do to not hide in some forgotten corner of the TARDIS and weep for days. He might have already, curled fetal in a bed, covered by seven hundred threads per square inch dampened by tears. Tears which still fell, he noted absently as another raced down his cheek, following the same path so many before it had taken. With one hand that shook far more than he liked, Ianto tried to wipe his face dry, in part embarrassed by his display and in part just to see if it'd work to stopper the grief that flowed unchecked.

Didn't work, not that Ianto had really believed it would. How could it when he could still feel that moment of awareness when they had known, all of them, that all was lost? They had lost.

And then it was gone. _They_ were all gone.

The shock was so intense that Ianto couldn't breathe as his insides twisted, tying themselves into fast knots and compressed until they felt like just a smear inside the gaping hole left by the Windhover's absence. And it wasn't just a sensation of loss brought on through acquisition of new information, he knew it wasn't. Ianto could _feel_ where there should have been many.

And there simply weren't. They were dead; all of them.

The bed dipping surprised Ianto. The physical sensation after focusing so intently internally was a shock and it took the extent of his control not to violently react. He felt first one hand, then the other wrap around a warm cup, not comprehending initially they were _his_ hands and found himself curious how they were acting without his conscious direction. Then he realized they weren't, not exactly. Other fingers curled around his; it took a moment to work out that a third hand was helping him lift the cup to his lips and that he hadn't suddenly grown a third arm. Tea spilled over the lip of the cup and it took Ianto forcing himself to swallow otherwise he rather thought he might have drowned by an exotic-tasting Earl Grey .

Wouldn't that have been a story for Torchwood? Drowned by tea.

It tasted good though, he so rarely brewed it and Gwen had only tried the once before he'd taken away her tea-making privileges. He drank until the cup was lowered -- he hadn't done that, but the cup had moved -- and felt the drink's warmth unfurl its feather-light fingers throughout his body. It'd started small, a ball of heat in his gut but then it spread a swath of calm that traveled the length of him, soothing the shivers that shook his frame.

"But then, they're not all dead, are they?"

Ianto didn't even bother trying to hide his confusion as he'd seen it happen. He might not understand or even comprehend at the moment, but he saw it happen. A flash of something in the night sky and then it just ... stopped . The memory had stopped. And it'd stopped because they'd ceased to be. He knew it; he'd seen it. He'd _experienced_ it. They were gone, all of them.

He rested his chin on his knees, head feeling rather heavy for what he knew it weighed, and angled it so he could look at the man sitting next to him that he knew he was supposed to hate. He had, earlier that day. Day? Maybe. But he had loathed him, been physically repulsed by him. And now .. Ianto knew it was still there, buried beneath far more pressing emotions, but he couldn't bring himself to feel it. Not even if he tried. Perhaps he was broken? Humpty Dumpty. Fractured into a million pieces.

"You're alive." The Doctor's voice sounded so pragmatic Ianto wondered why he hadn't considered his existence before as evidence contrary to his beliefs. They weren't all dead; he lived, and that he felt relief both sickened him and thrilled him, despite not quite understanding because he hadn't actually known them. The Doctor appeared amused, maybe concerned, but definitely intrigued while Ianto stared at him, not for any interest on his part but because it was growing increasingly difficult to think about moving, much less actually accomplishing it. "But how ... well, that'll just have to wait, won't it? I imagine you're feeling a bit tired."

A mighty powerful understatement, Ianto thought as the Doctor's face blurred, whites and browns splashing the walls by the hands of an Impressionist. His entire body felt weak, woozy with exhaustion that crept into even his hair, which felt limp and plastered to his head. Maybe it was, he wasn't quite sure. But as that thought flitted across his mind, another poured like spilt tea and his eyes narrowed despite the struggle to keep the lids apart.

The bastard had drugged him.

He wanted to yell, he wanted to curse the man, he wanted to fear for himself and his personal safety but all he could do is move his hand, raising a finger while the Doctor's chuckle bounced off the wavering walls which seemed to be pouring over the floor. At least he was sitting on a bed, wrapped in seven hundred thread count sheets which should keep him from the melting walls.

Ianto felt his eyes close with the weight of twin elephants even as his body moved not of his command, pressure growing and disappearing as he recognized he was being unfolded from his protective curl and settled back on the bed.

He'd have to remember to check to make sure his heart was still there when he woke.

***

Ianto woke lazily, the fleeting tendrils of dream tickling consciousness and teasing it with possibility of the impossible. Rolling onto his back with an arm thrown over his eyes as a precautionary measure, he smiled -- not that he could stop himself -- the dream had truly been delicious, whatever it had been. Couldn't quite remember now, vanishing like wisps of smoke over the Quay no matter how hard he tried to cling to them. Jack would be amused; he found the very concept of not remembering one's dreams as ludicrous as wearing perfume. The 51st century mind simply remembered -- or perhaps was trained, Ianto theorized -- to capture dreams in Jack's time, the explorations of the subconscious a viable science and every thought of the imagination valued.

Jack had never commented whether the memory thing worked for nightmares, though Ianto rather assumed it did. He couldn't decide which was worse, forgetting the truly delightful or remembering the utterly horrible.

 _Jack._

Startled, Ianto physically started in a half-articulated flail as his legs were bound, blind panic clouding all reason for a moment before he realized it was only bedding tangling his legs. Bedding. Seven hundred threads per square inch. Kidnapped. Drugged. _Halcyon_. The Doctor.

The Windhovers were dead.

He remembered; he remembered _everything_ , albeit from a hazy, distant point of view which was remarkably less traumatic than it had felt the night before. Night? His gaze bounced around the room in tempo with his heart thundering against his chest and Ianto cursed himself for doing such a shitty job of composing himself. He was a better Torchwood agent than that. London had taught him decorum if nothing more, constriction of self until only propriety in the name of Queen and country remained. Old habits born of necessity were hard to break though, and still that frightened-yet-resilient boy lingered behind the suits and regulations. Ianto knew he did, he saw him from time to time. Like now, cowed and awed as he clutched the bedding to his chest.

The room he was in ... was quite large.

No, 'large' discredited the room's scope. It was enormous.

And oddly enough, Ianto noted as he took in the room, rather like his bedroom in Cardiff.

 _Exactly_ like his bedroom in Cardiff, if his bedroom was a scaled model and blended with ... no, he knew those vaulted ceilings. And the windows stretching three stories above his head with scattered alcoves tucked in seeming random fashion, though perhaps there was a method. Knew them even if he'd never been there, knew them even if by rights the crystalline structures had been destroyed eons in the past. It was Windhover architecture, he knew it despite the simple fact that he _shouldn't_. And the familiarity clung to him like _home_ even if his own bed (or what looked like his bed) was arranged in the middle of the room with his nightstand and end lamp and for fuck's sake, the book he had been reading rested perfectly square with the corners of the end table. With hesitation born more of certainty than doubt, Ianto walked to the end table and picked up the book. A quick flip to the bookmark revealed what he'd assumed: the page marked was where he had left off. The bookmark was different, however, and for some reason that little touch relieved him. Lisa had given him that bookmark -- a glow-in-the-dark alien flashing the peace sign -- and to have that repeated here would have some how tainted that memory. No, not tainted. But Ianto liked that the original hadn't been duplicated.

Other things were the same, a chair he kept for late-night reading but really became a second wardrobe for storing the clothing he was going to take to the cleaners stood empty near the bed. The bedding was different; these were the cranberry of his favorite pajama bottoms and he only kept white or an inky blue, depending on his mood. The lamp was the same, however, down to the last blue stripe and the shade Jack had accidentally elbowed and dented.

The little details had nothing on the room itself, however.

As Ianto spun in a slow circle, he felt both dwarfed and comforted by the, well, no other term for it but organic. None of the windows were actually rectangular -- more a mash of straight lines and corners -- and the towering walls jutted inwards at points, bending outwards at others, creating pockets of shadows and brilliant spectacles of light despite no apparent light source. Ianto wasn't even sure if there were panes of glass in the windows and how that was accomplished on a ship which traveled through space he hadn't the faintest idea. But it wasn't that the walls (more than four, but Ianto wouldn't describe the room as round nor as possessing a determinable number of planes) were arranged chaotically, or that the design lacked a solid structural support. There was method, somehow. Maybe not science as these were most certainly unlike any crystal form he'd ever seen. But there was method. And a sense of comfort.

It was the comfort in what looked like a child's scribble -- which to the child might look exactly as the object appeared within their untamed imaginative mind -- that concerned Ianto. How was such a structure plausible, much less constructable?

Now intrigued, Ianto moved towards one of the walls -- could he even call them walls when they went so contrary to everything he believed a wall should be? From a distance, the walls appeared a cross between polished black stone and crystal, less opaque than obsidian but possessing that particular gleam. But as he moved closer, the less 'crystal' it looked and the more unrecognizable it became. The black was no longer black, he realized as he stretched a hand from beneath the sheets still wrapped tightly around his body. It was opalescent, the fiery rainbow which gleamed within the heart of an opal only instead of prismatic colors the walls gleamed with tumbling shades of stormy purple and jagged streaks of jade. Familiar colors and yet so foreign, blooming and withering within the inky blackness of the walls. The surface gave slightly beneath his touch, nothing he'd fear breaking but it felt rather like firm gelatin, and it was warm, warmer than the surrounding air but not radiating heat.

Double-paned glass. That's what it reminded him of. If one would fill the inside space with black smoke and shined a green light from the bottom, that's almost what the wall looked like. But rather than panes of glass, there was the firm-yet-not surface trapping the black within. Within _what_ Ianto had no bloody clue -- the stormy clouds in violet hue appeared to stretch into forever, which was impossible since it was a _wall_ no matter if it was Windhover built or not.

Except maybe when it was possible.

Ianto forced himself away from the wall, he'd do himself no good staring into a space he couldn't explain, and looked about the room. He felt the TARDIS tickle the corner of his mind as he did so, she seemed so proud? Apologetic? Searching ... for his approval? The room was definitely spectacular and fell beyond grandiose and he should have felt completely out of place in something so exceeding his standards. But it was Windhover in design, mixed with the familiar sights of his bedroom in Cardiff, producing a welcoming atmosphere that felt ... like home.

He approved, even if he didn't exactly understand why.

***

Ianto had quickly found the washroom, opting to wash away the stink of dried sweat and fear before seeking out the Doctor. He should have been surprised when he stepped into the attached room to discover _his_ washroom, just like in Cardiff, but he wasn't. Maybe he was overwhelmed, or maybe he'd just become numb, but he hadn't even blinked as he quickly moved through his morning ablutions, using the mindless tasks to organize his thoughts and questions for the Doctor. He was fairly certain he wasn't a prisoner on board the TARDIS, no matter the hijinks and drugging which Ianto had to admit actually left him feeling more refreshed than any Earth sedative. What he didn't like doing was giving the Doctor any credit as the memory of the man was enough to raise his hackles once again, itching at the opportunity to ... do something. _Anything_. Even if it was just to slug him, which Ianto felt a bit like doing given due cause or not.

The Windhovers were gone and Ianto had no direction for his anger or grief, all of which were so innate and yet foreign as he hadn't actually known any of his species. It wasn't like he'd lost loved ones or friends. But yet the emotions were still there, burning just below the surface like it'd always existed but he'd never before recognized it. He knew that wasn't correct, however, because he hadn't perceived those emotions prior to seeing the ruin of Halcyon, spanning space as far as his eye could see. He was aware of his emotions, and losing the ones he'd loved - Lisa, his mother and father - had taught him grief while losing Torchwood One had given him both helplessness and guilt. This, however, was new. Despairing. A constant bleeding gash in his body that he couldn't identify the injury much less triage.

He'd feel better punching the Doctor. Even if the action was undeserved.

Ianto had no clothes, or at least the suit he had been wearing was missing. He'd found himself both surprised and yet not upon entering the washroom, dropping the sheets still wrapped about him to discover himself in his boxer briefs and undershirt. Embarrassed would perhaps be the operative word and Ianto refused to consider how and when he had been divested of his clothes. He still wasn't entirely sure how to act given his complete loss of sense when he witnessed the memory or whatever it had been of the Windhover's annihilation -- losing control so utterly when he was in a situation demanding control was inexcusable and Jack would have his hide (or should, given the protocol found on page one-forty-six of the Torchwood Manual) when he returned.

Frowning as he realized he didn't know the 'when' portion of his return, Ianto opened the wardrobe in his quest to find something respectable he could wear to confront the Doctor in. He didn't quite know what he'd been expecting, maybe spare clothing the Doctor wore which would probably not fit Ianto's frame but he was hoping for maybe some loose denims or something ...

He shouldn't have been surprised, but he was.

The wardrobe held clothing, none of which seemed so extraordinarily _different_ that he couldn't see himself wearing, but that wasn't what surprised him. What did was the first shirt he pulled out, a soft material he'd never encountered before which felt cool as silk to the touch but moved like linen. Just a fluke, he figured, and slipped it back on the bar he'd found it on, skipping a few shirts down and withdrew a deep red shirt, an odd cross between a t-shirt and an oxford but it was the same as the first. Ianto put it back and flipped through all the shirts, ranging in textures from leather to cashmere and designs from sleeveless to turtlenecks but they were all the same even if the sizes varied wildly. Every single one of them.

Slats. Two of them, centered mid-back and finely tailored for both strength and comfort.

His hands shook despite every effort to still them as he held up a knit shirt in black, spinning it around so he could poke two fingers in the back as though his eyes deceived him and he needed the touch to verify. They weren't mistakes in the craftsmanship, in fact the tailoring was remarkable and Ianto knew if his father could see it he'd be impressed with the manufacture of the shirts. But these ... the garments were made for him. His species. Perhaps made _by_ them.  There were multiple sizes. This wasn't the TARDIS's doing like she had the room; they weren't custom to him. These were ... but that meant ...

Ianto sat on the chair he usually kept for storing dirty suits and stared both at the wardrobe and the shirt in hand. It didn't make sense, any of it. Clothing designed for the Windhovers -- wait, they couldn't be the only winged species, right? Perhaps he was making something of nothing. But even as Ianto thought it the idea slipped away, leaving him rather certain that members of his species had at one time traveled on the TARDIS. They'd traveled on the TARDIS despite the Doctor? In glad company of the Doctor? That made even less sense as Ianto could barely tolerate the man's presence as it was.

His breathing echoed loudly in the still silence of the room, pulsing off the walls that weren't really walls in rhythm with the ebb and flow of his thoughts. They kept circling back to one thing: the Doctor knew the Windhovers. He'd met them, perhaps traveled with them, he _knew_ them. Which meant he might find some answers. And that was the point where his thoughts dispersed and stuck their mental tongues out at him in childish protest. Answers meant speaking with the Doctor. Answers meant asking him questions. Answers meant being conciliatory.

Smothering a shudder at the thought, Ianto stood and resolutely faced the wardrobe. He'd not survived life by cowering when faced with adversity and he wasn't about to now.

***

"Oh, brilliant. You're awake. Come on then, they sell out fast."

Ianto stared blankly as he exited the hallway into the bridge of the TARDIS, frozen mid-step as he watched the Doctor open the door and rush out without looking back. Whatever reception he'd been expecting, Ianto had not expected _that_. He'd worked himself up to asking a few questions, excusing any impugning of his dignity for asking the Doctor of all people help into knowing who he and the Windhovers were, only to have that tossed aside like yesterday's newspaper by the Doctor's odd behavior. Odd if only by normal's standards; Ianto was coming to realize that anything concerning the Doctor should not be judged by normality and perhaps that explained Jack's attraction to the man. Ianto honestly didn't see it; where on Jack the compulsion for idiosyncrasy was part of his charm, on the Doctor, for a man his age and record, it simply looked foolish.

"I hear they have the best coffee next to yours." The Doctor's head appeared in the doorway again, enthusiasm evident even if he hadn't been wearing the manic grin. Ianto definitely failed to see what attracted Jack to this man to the extent he would leave his team at the chance to return. "I wouldn't know, can't stomach coffee myself but I have it on good authority it's palatable."

He watched the Doctor vanish once again, unmasked incredulity felt even in his fingertips so Ianto knew it must be written plainly on his face.  He'd be ashamed by the lack of composure but he really was having too difficult a time as he struggled to make sense of ... everything.  Only the day before -- was it yesterday if the concept of linear time was now relative to the perceptions of the one onboard a ship that could travel time? -- he'd been in the Archives of Torchwood, been affronted by a man whose crimes against the universe threatened to overwhelm him, then taken hostage by the Doctor's bloody TARDIS, saw Halcyon, had some odd flashback to the death of the Windhovers, and was drugged by the Doctor.

And now the man wanted breakfast (or lunch or dinner, whenever they were) instead of explaining himself or returning Ianto to Torchwood?

Maybe the daylight was actually Cardiff and the Doctor _had_ returned him.  There were, after all, a few coffee shops in Cardiff that brewed a decent coffee. 

Ianto hadn't considered that, and wouldn't he look foolish standing motionless and gawking at the door if Jack and the others were outside.

Stiffening his spine until he was sure his back would snap if he slouched, Ianto tugged at the sleeves of the black jacket he wore (for all appearances looking like it came from a military surplus store, though definitely not British for all the buckles and trim cut) and tried to ignore the press of the black t-shirt at his back.  He was being ridiculous, the slats were no more bulky than the rest of the shirt and definitely not visible beneath the jacket (he'd checked in a mirror) but he still felt them as a brand upon his back like the biggest neon blinking arrow he'd ever seen, screaming to everyone that he was _different_. 

He was, he supposed.  So was the Doctor.  So was Jack.  Hell, so was Owen for that matter.  But the shirt just made it feel more obvious, more permanent.  More authentic.  He wasn't ready for reality yet.

Determined, Ianto decided he was being utterly daft and stiffly crossed the threshold -- an action that felt less strident without his suit -- into brilliant daylight that made his eyes protest as they quickly tried to adapt to the change in lighting.  Blinded for a moment, he stopped to wait until his eyes adjusted, then unnecessarily blinked at what he saw. 

Then blinked again. 

The landscape didn't change, and neither did the smirking buffoon in front of him, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for Ianto. He ignored the Doctor for a moment, taking the time to take in his surroundings. 

Definitely not Cardiff.

Not even Earth, if he wasn't mistaken. And Ianto was fairly certain he wasn't, because the tree next to the TARDIS had salmon-colored leaves. So did the grass. Grass? Could it be called grass if it functioned under a completely different growth process than Earth-grass? It was leafy, whatever it was, bladed, like grass. Only the odd orangish-pink made the meadow look straight out of a child's drawing rather than Earth-like. 

The flying vehicle that zipped over their heads was quite possibly another clue that they were not in Cardiff. Or at least not the Cardiff he knew. 

No, he knew this planet. Well, he didn't know-know it; he'd never been there before. But Ianto knew it as his mind helpfully filled in the gaps while he looked at the small village just up the path from them. _Trahgdar_. The time period wasn't quite certain, nor was it really applicable Ianto assumed, as he had no frame of reference in relation to Earth-time. But it was Trahgdar. He didn't know much else, there was an indigenous population (the Dinoud), their monetary system was mostly mercantile barter, and in terms of threat, it was incredibly low. In fact, the threat level read 'minimal.' 

And the Doctor's appearance would probably destroy any peace it enjoyed. Brilliant.

"Welcome to the planet -"

"Trahgdar." Ianto supplied with a quick smile he didn't really mean as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of trousers that weren't quite denim. He didn't see any point in pretending, the Doctor knew what he was and if it filled him with a little immature pleasure to kill that manic grin, well, that was just an added bonus. It just wasn't right -- the list of destruction and ruin stretched in his mind, but the Doctor didn't _act_ like there was a problem of any kind. Not that Ianto was sure how the Doctor ought to be acting beneath the weight of his crimes, but a little more stoicism might be appropriate.    

As if on cue the gleeful smile fell, and damned if Ianto didn't feel a bit guilty for it. He looked rather like Ianto had kicked his proverbial puppy. Ianto bit back the apology, however. He felt a twinge of guilt, not a complete dismissal of Windhover instinct.

"It's pronounced Trahgt-ar," the Doctor corrected, producing a guttural sound that Ianto assumed was the native dialect.  Ianto supposed he deserved the correction, just a bit.  "Interesting etymology.  Stems from the ancient Coushine root _y-trahgr_ which means, ah, roughly 'tasty greens' in your English..."

The Doctor turned abruptly and started walking up a trail which led to the village Ianto could see in the distance, never looking back to see if he followed or not.  Ianto looked back at the TARDIS, debating his options amidst the salmon-colored foliage and flying vehicles on a planet somewhere in the known universe, in a time between the dawning and end of all things.

Coffee won, no matter the company.


	5. Chapter 5

"-so that's why they call it Trahgdar instead of Dinwale, despite their greens which aren't actually green. Rather like Dinwale myself, sort of rolls off the tongue like Bergen without the fish. But who's to argue with the Dinoud?"

Ianto couldn't help himself; he stared. Not at the banana the Doctor waved around like a conductor's baton as he guided an orchestra in _Flight of the Bumblebee_. Nor was he staring at the Doctor because (Ianto was fairly certain) he hadn't paused for breath during the whole lecture on the origins of the planet's name -- surely Time Lords had to breathe? No, he was staring for an entirely different reason, even as he held the coffee cup clenched in his fingertips and had to will himself not to squeeze harder for fear of spilling what smelled like perfectly brewed coffee even if it had come out of a machine with four nozzles and a whirly-gig. "You bartered your mobile."

"Best coffee in the system!" The Doctor gestured at the rather large cup in Ianto's hands, an insulated piece of wonder which kept his hands cool and yet promised to degrade into water and silicone sand when the inside dried. "And real bananas. I love bananas."

 _"You're bananas,"_ Ianto so desperately wanted to say, but following the Trahgdar history lesson, he wisely opted against speaking his mind. If it had been Owen sitting across from him at the tiny outdoor table, he might not have been so generous. Deliberately taking a sip of his coffee and refraining from affirming the quality (though it more than met his high standards), Ianto eased back into his chair and studied the Doctor, who appeared nonplussed and almost like he encouraged the examination "That was deliberate," Ianto voiced before he realized that he believed what he said. But it was truth, and the anger that came with it felt just as real. "You did it so Jack couldn't phone you."

"Wrong, Mr. Jones." The Doctor didn't smile this time, but he did gesticulate with the banana again, emphatically making his point. "Now _you_ can't phone _him_."  

He nearly argued semantics before he stopped himself with the words still upon his tongue, spoiling the taste of rich coffee grown on hillsides he'd never seen. "You've no right to keep me hostage!" His voice rose, he couldn't stop himself, but the fear of just how far he was from Cardiff, from Torchwood, hell, from _Jack_ began settling in around him as ghosts of yesterday. The TARDIS would take him back, wouldn't she? There had to be laws against this; the fact that he couldn't think of any meant nothing. This was wrong; everything about the situation was so very wrong and crawling under his skin until even the wind blowing through his hair scratched through his sense of control and calm. The TARDIS tried -- he could feel her attempts to comfort even from this distance -- but it seemed the more he attempted to regain stability within his life, ever since seeing his mother outside Torchwood, the faster it had spun away from him, until now he was on another bloody planet, for gods' sakes, with no means of returning home under his own power.

Maybe he did.

The more he thought about it, the more plausible the notion became. When he'd witnessed ... whatever it had been. Memory? Not his. A Windhover's. Someone who'd perished in their final attack. But it had been perfectly reasonable to that individual that the Windhovers should arrive from any time or space. Maybe if he thought about it long enough, accessed more memories somehow, he could figure it out ...

"No." Ianto startled as he focused on the Doctor who had jabbed the banana in his direction, so close in fact that Ianto found himself leaning back to avoid it. The Doctor continued as gravely as he'd begun. "I know what you're thinking and that would be a very bad idea, Mr. Jones."

Opening his mouth to argue, Ianto realized he had no idea what he'd be arguing against. The assumed line of thought? The content? The Doctor for being who he was? It unnerved Ianto just how little he understood his own footing around the man, so he tried to hide his confusion behind a well-timed gulp of coffee. With most of Torchwood, even Jack, Ianto believed he may have pulled off the masked emotion; with the Doctor, on the other hand, it appeared it hadn't worked particularly well. The other man's expression softened, which was rather unfair as Ianto couldn't read the other man at all.

"There may still be some out there that hunt your kind." The Doctor waved the banana with a flourish, an action Ianto completely failed to interpret as he was still fixated on the word _"hunt"_. "You'll go attracting all sorts of unwanted attention and I still haven't figured out how you _live_ , much less without your H'd-toba."

There was that word again. 'H'd-toba'. Ianto faintly understood what it meant from what he'd gleaned in the vision -- some kind of partner -- but he still didn't know why the Doctor kept insisting he had one. Unless maybe Jack was his H'd-toba? Was that possible? Defining their relationship had never been a particularly strong subject for either of them, and the way Jack had left to chase down the Mellonians didn't leave Ianto believing things were on good enough terms to ask him if he was. Or if he would be. Was it that important to have one? The Doctor seemed to imply that it was, but then, the Doctor was responsible for the destruction of so much; could he even be trusted to utter truth? "How do you know about-" Ianto stopped himself and glanced around, feeling as uncomfortable saying it aloud as he had with Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy. There wasn't an individual around; the tables were empty around them and the street held a few out for a stroll, but none paid attention to the conversation at their tiny table. Still, Ianto cringed at using the name and admitting anything about himself. "How do you know about them?"

"You existed before us and would have existed long after." The Doctor studied him for a moment, marking the time between Ianto's breaths with a tap on his chin and Ianto felt uncomfortably like he was being measured up. "We were once allies, yours and mine, Mr. Jones. After the Great Parting you disavowed us, but there's no reason now to pretend we knew nothing of you." He paused, dropping his eyes to his hands in the only sign of ... flappability that Ianto had seen. He wasn't so sure he liked it, even if he he did loathe the man. The Doctor's face brightened considerably, the shift so sudden and drastic Ianto was convinced it was false. Not that the words would be false, but he had seen Jack do the same thing when the conversation drifted to sensitive topics he'd rather avoid. "I'd thought you'd all been lost, but here you are! So tell me how you escaped, I do love a good story."

Ianto sipped his coffee, taking time to consider everything the Doctor had said as well as to buy himself time before answering as he didn't consider his escape that good of a story.  None of it made much sense; he did get the impression that the Great Parting had been between the Windhovers and the Time Lords, but what that entailed or why he would do something as silly as pretend what he honestly did not know left him wishing for more coffee and two aspirin. Maybe a shot or two of tequila. Shit, he'd never even told _Jack_ how he'd escaped from Providence. Taking a deep breath, Ianto quickly recounted the details of his escape that he could remember. "Not much to tell. I began palming the anti-psychotics some time after I arrived at Providence Park, and eventually the effects lessened to the degree I could appropriate orderly clothing, keys, and a mobile. When the migraines began, I escaped the grounds and phoned an old contact for assistance."

The Doctor's comical, flummoxed look would have been entertaining had Ianto not had the distinct impression that was not the response the Doctor had been expecting. He would have been embarrassed for misinterpreting the Doctor's question and providing those details of his life, but he'd already thoroughly humiliated himself by his display after viewing the remains of Halcyon. Not that it had been necessarily his fault; Ianto rather believed that the response had been more instinctual than failure of control on his part, but he didn't take to emotional collapses in front of strangers.

"You don't remember escaping Halcyon before the Daleks attacked?"

Now it was Ianto's turn to stare what he expected was dumbfoundedly, but he couldn't stop himself had he the mind to try. The _Daleks_? The Daleks were responsible for the annihilation of the Windhovers? The same Daleks that had engaged in battle against the Cybermen and Torchwood personnel at Torchwood One? His stomach turned to lead and the coffee felt like it congealed at the thought of twice now the abominations were responsible for so much death. If he'd only known ...

Ianto could feel the fury rising as he thought of the battle in London; he'd had opportunity then. If he'd known, fuck, he could feel his fingernails digging into his fists as the urge to do something...anything...in retaliation for the destruction of his kind. He'd had the chance just a few years past, he could have opened the Veil and allowed the existence beyond to swallow them up until such a time when they were no longer a threat. _That's_ what he could have done, with the charges against the Daleks for their crimes. And the Cybermen too, for everything they'd done.

For _Lisa_.

His clenched fists shook; fuck he could feel them shake as his teeth ground together as he struggled to heed the Doctor's earlier warning not to jump back in time, to fix that missed opportunity for vengeance. But just as before with the Doctor, Ianto could feel the urge slip away as quickly as it had begun as reason grappled for control. Soon he could once again smell the wafts of coffee from the cup still setting on their table.

He hadn't known, then. And he couldn't exact revenge now. He _couldn't_. Justice, perhaps. If he found them now he could quantify their crimes and try them in accordance to Law. They had destroyed the Windhovers, they would pay for their crimes.

But in justice's name.

Not vengeance, otherwise he would be no better than the criminals themselves or the merc Judoon who killed for pleasure.

And just as calmly as he had before the revelation, Ianto stretched out his hand and lifted the coffee cup, taking a long sip before acknowledging the Doctor again. He had no idea how long his little fit of temper had lasted, but he had to calm himself. He was a Windhover, and moreover, he was Ianto Jones. He had an image of professionalism and order to maintain, even if he wasn't wearing a suit. "I wasn't at Halcyon when it was destroyed. I'd not left Earth until the TARDIS took me hostage, and I was not aware that it was the Daleks who were responsible for the deaths of the Windhovers -- which I didn't even know I was until I passed out in the backseat of a car after my escape from Providence and woke up with bloody wings."

He heard his own voice rise almost independently as his irritation grew, his overall frustration with simply everything so massive it threatened to drown out even the smell of the coffee. Although what he expected from a fucking Time Lord he wasn't sure; they hadn't involved themselves in the concerns of others outside their precious timelines for generations, why Ianto expected help from the Doctor he had no clue.

And then he had to wonder why he thought that at all.

Distress. Ianto decided 'distress' was an appropriate and fitting term for himself at the moment.

For his part, the Doctor looked equally as perplexed as Ianto felt, which assuaged his ego just a bit. When the Doctor finally spoke, some of the confusion had cleared, but wonderment still underlined his words. "You initiated just weeks ago?" At Ianto's nod (agreeing to what he assumed was in reference to the whole acquisition of wings ordeal), the Doctor continued. "And what of your Coterie? And your H'd-toba? They weren't present? Where is your H'd-toba?"

"I was alone." Truth be told, Ianto had no idea what the hell the Doctor was on about, nor what half of what he spoke of even meant. He didn't seem to know anything and it was increasingly difficult to maintain any semblance of composure in response to the Doctor's rapid queries as it became more apparent just how little he knew in front of a man who Ianto believed could out-destroy the Daleks if he put his mind to it. Maybe even had already. But Ianto swallowed what small measure of pride he had left and asked the question that had been bothering him. "What is a H'd-toba? Is-" Ianto cleared his throat, a sudden shyness clogging any attempt to speak and ask the question he felt like he ought to know. "Is Jack my H'd-toba?"

Whatever response Ianto had been expecting, it hadn't been laughter. And not just a small little chuckle; the Doctor's laughter was a boisterous laugh that echoed in the relatively empty streets of this village on Trahgdar. Shame rose quickly to Ianto's face, the blush quickly heating his skin until his whole face felt ablaze. Forget any earlier embarrassment, Ianto decided as he quickly stood from his chair. This toppled all previous slights. He wasn't quite sure why the Doctor's opinion mattered, for all the important reasons it shouldn't. But the man had a way of making him feel sixteen years old again and like he'd woken to sticky sheets after dreams involving Mr Tanner, the kind man who'd paid Ianto to tend his gardens in the summer months.

"Ianto, please, sit down. My sincerest apologies; I shouldn't have laughed." Ianto stared at the hand touching his arm, the mild restraint easily broken and equally offensive but Ianto honestly wasn't sure if it was the Doctor's laughter which had repulsed him so much or the physical contact which was more psychosomatic than legit, he reasoned. But reason didn't stop him from feeling disgusted, both on his own behalf and on Jack's, and the hand was removed as quickly as it had appeared, to Ianto's relief. He crossed his arms, waiting for the Doctor to either quickly explain himself or to offer to return Ianto home.

"It's just ... you're Windhover. He's decidedly not." Blankly, Ianto waited for the Doctor to continue because that explanation meant nothing to him and went even further in offense towards Jack. "You exist outside of space and time. Well, not in that form. Actually, in that form, but for all appearances in that form you don't. Jack, on the other hand, is a fixed point in time, as permanent a stamp in time as one can be. He is no more your H'd-toba than I am."

Now it was Ianto's turn to laugh, not the boisterous laugh of the Doctor's but quite the extended chuckle as what the Doctor had said repeated itself over and over in his mind, growing more and more absurd with each repeat. 'Exist outside of space and time'? Ludicrous. The Doctor was most certainly lying, seeing how extreme he could get before Ianto's faith in his credibility finally snapped. And it had. What else had been bullshit? The Daleks' involvement? The etymology of Trahgdar? Perhaps not all the Windhovers were even dead; perhaps this was just some fanciful vision concocted by the Doctor and his TARDIS. The tea! His tea had been drugged, though that'd happened before the memory-vision thing. He might be tied up somewhere on the Doctor's ship, and he just needed to wake up from whatever nightmare he was experiencing.

The Doctor was looking at him much like he'd lost his mind, which wasn't the first time anyone had ever looked at him that way. Fucking thing about sanity -- it's all relative depending on the observer. "And I suppose the pyramids are really ship landing pads and the American President is actually a space poodle."

Looking like he was seriously going to answer, the Doctor stopped himself and for once Ianto had to applaud this first demonstration of restraint. But the other man spoke, just not in words the Ianto had been expecting. "There is no purpose in deception, Mr. Jones."

Ianto found himself sitting without consciously deciding to sit, the press of the chair solid against his backside when everything else around him trembled. Maybe that's what earthquakes were like, only he knew the land itself wasn't quaking, it was steady as ever. Would another planet still call them earthquakes? It was presumptuous to believe that they would call the ground 'earth' as it was called on planet Earth. Perhaps here they were called trahgdarquakes, though that had a significant drop in phonetic poetry and sounded more like a cat coughing a hairball than a viable word.

Fuck. How could anyone exist outside of space and time?

That was impossible.

Except when it wasn't.

Which it apparently was.

Ianto finally located his voice somewhere between 'what the fuck?' and 'holy shit', two expletives he refrained from exclaiming if only for the sake of company. "I don't understand," he said, words coming out far softer than he would have liked, but it was truth in both power and content. He knew nothing. He understood nothing. And the most distressing part of it all, he had no access to information outside of the man sitting across the table from him because Halcyon was _gone_. He'd always prided himself on his ability to learn, to take a subject and read up on it, then apply that knowledge to a situation. It'd gotten him through life during all the odd jobs he worked to support him and his mother and working for Torchwood London. Even Cardiff.

But there were no books, no Internet, no records, no family to interview or even invoices to study and research. He had the Doctor. And with a scowl, Ianto could sort of understand why Jack had vanished on them to seek out answers.

"I don't either! Brilliant, isn't it?"

His fingers curled around his coffee cup at the Doctor's cheerful tone, and he may have made a sound that may have sounded suspiciously like a growl, but Ianto would deny it if asked later. If all Time Lords were like the Doctor, it was a small wonder the two races had split.

Thankfully the Doctor sobered, and Ianto wasn't forced to take extreme measures like waste his remaining coffee soaking the Doctor's brown suit. "You must understand, Mr. Jones. Your race originates from a place outside what we understand as space and time. You had a name for the boundary, the L'ranore Veil, which separated here from the-"

"From existence beyond." The Doctor's expression twisted as though he'd tasted something sour, and Ianto figured he must have been right to have earned that expression. He remembered the phrase from the vision, and now that he had heard it he knew that it was correct in this use, no matter what the Doctor thought.

"Yes, well, we called it The Void."

Ianto snorted, he couldn't help himself. "You don't understand something, so you call it a name implying nothing could exist in something you failed to understand."

"Some refer to it as Hell." The Doctor smiled, an artificially helpful smile that only served to aggravate Ianto more. But the term brought to the forefront the fears that possibly his race had been dangerous, deadly, an evil for which there was purpose in its destruction. He didn't think it was possible -- he didn't consider himself ultimately evil -- but there was much he didn't know. "As we understood it, in the ... on the other side of the Veil," the Doctor's grin this time was more apologetic as he edited himself than not, "there is this giant ... nebulous ... glob of gobbildygook." His hands waved around in what Ianto assumed was an attempt to visually represent what he was saying. It wasn't helping matters. "But there's no mass to it, there's no matter. It exists because it exists, not because it was ever born but because it's a constant in the absence of all known constants."

His eyebrow arched in skepticism before Ianto could check the action. "You're making no sense."

"Now you understand why we called it The Void."

Rather than agree to the Doctor's point, Ianto took a drink of his coffee, still rather remarkably the same temperature as the beverage had been when the Doctor had traded for it some time ago. It was impressive and Ianto desperately wished to get his hands on the technology for use back home. If he swore to not sell the information, he did wonder if the Doctor would let him keep the cup. "So let's say what you said is true. What does that giant nebulous glob of gobbbidlygook have to do with me?"

"Because you're it. Or an expression of it." The Doctor leaned forward, banana in hand, his face alarmingly close for Ianto's periodic urge to hit the bastard. Not that he would lose all restraint except under true duress, but the idea was tempting at times. "Consider satellites. The Windhovers were individual satellites, throughout time and the Universes, gathering information and sending it back to the Void while functioning as the operating arm this side of the Void."

"And information can be received as well," Ianto noted, as even if the concept itself was difficult to wrap his brain around, it did at least give credence as to why he seemed to know some things. "That makes me sound rather ... robotic." He didn't say the name he was thinking, applying such a term to his own being made him ill.

"Oh, not at all. Satellite was too simplistic. Although, that makes perfect sense now why he named them ArchAngel-" Ianto didn't miss the sorrow which crossed the Doctor's face, maybe a little regret, but he couldn't fathom the reason why -- he knew of a project named that, but few of the details as it had never been a Torchwood concern. It almost made him feel sympathy for the man. "Well, anyway. You all had families, _Coteries_ you called them, even though you didn't share any genetic information to actually make you family." At Ianto's blank stare, the Doctor quickly elaborated. "You don't have genetic information. DNA. RNA. TNA. You exist because you _think_ you exist, not because your parents physically copulated and created you through shared genetic material."

And with that, the Doctor completely lost Ianto. He had a mother and a father, he'd been born with help of a midwife named Annie, and most importantly, he remembered every day of his life from a very young age. He hadn't just popped into existence because he thought he should exist. He physically looked like his parents, he had his father's figure and his mother's dark, wavy hair. He had father's nose and his mother's eyes and cheeks. There was little doubt he was related to them and he was not denying that they were his parents, no matter their history.  

Ianto finished the last of his coffee and again stood, but this time without his earlier force. He was done with this conversation. It was edging into the ridiculous and it was past time for him to return to Cardiff. "I think we're done here." To his credit, the Doctor didn't say anything, just stood and followed Ianto out away from the terrace of tables and chairs, and didn't question when Ianto didn't take the path back towards the meadow and the TARDIS, but rather walked up a street with intriguing storefronts of clothing he'd never seen before, technology that he'd only ever imagined, even with Torchwood's access. He needed time to consider what the Doctor had said, what it meant, and if there was any truth to his words.

Fuck if he didn't believe the Doctor, which made it more difficult to understand how it could be possible.

***

"It's the ultimate camouflage device to protect your kind."

The Doctor had remained silent for all of eleven minutes while they walked; Ianto had bet himself that it would take only eight minutes before the Doctor broke the silence so he supposed he owed himself for being wrong. What payment would be he didn't know, he typically wasn't incorrect when he made those bets and Ianto felt a bit bewildered how to handle this internal wager. Ianto didn't acknowledge the Doctor's words, however, just kept walking with his hands in the shallow pockets of his jacket. But he listened, if for nothing more than to tell the Doctor precisely why he couldn't be right.

"Quite brilliant, really. The H'd-tobi pair seek out a willing individual on a planet they protected and implanted the idea of a new Windhover H'd-tobi. The existence then goes through the development cycle of their host, and they're birthed as identical twins of that species. They mature to adulthood as children of that planet's main governing species, thinking they were that species. Then their Coterie comes for Initiation, when they reconnect with the ... thing ... across the Veil."

"Sprouting wings," Ianto helpfully clarified, not that he entirely believed the Doctor's story but he could rationalize a few things with the information; like how he'd fooled every test Owen and the TARDIS had run because he'd, what, thought himself human?

"Visual and physical manifestation of the tether connecting you to your 'existence beyond'."

Ianto blinked in surprise, the idea of the wings as a link between he and ... it ... had never entered the realm of possibility. They'd been a nuisance and a hindrance, but nothing more. "And if the link is severed?"

"Then you cease to exist," the Doctor said simply, causing Ianto to pale at his notion of surgically removing his wings back at Lester's when desperation admittedly caused him to think a bit irrationally. "There were theories that the Daleks had a device which instantly cut all the Windhover's links across the Veil, it was the only thing that explained the way they vanished."

"There was a light, something which..." Ianto struggled to think of a word to describe what he had seen, "...hummed ... sort of opposite the hum of the Veil."

"It's possible, maybe canceled portions of the link which caused it to fail." The Doctor shrugged, then with an added bounce to his step turned to Ianto as they walked. "Which does not explain how _you_ are here."

With certainty, Ianto stated what he knew. "I wasn't a twin. There was only me."

"And if your H'd-toba had died, you would have as well." The Doctor's eyes narrowed on him as he flipped the banana in his hand. "You shouldn't have survived Initiation without your Coterie or H'd-toba either. Their assistance in the ritual was essential."

Ianto once again got the feeling that the Doctor was blaming him for something he hadn't done. Skipping out on the destruction of Halcyon? He could see how that would be a betrayal to his kind, but Ianto was certain he remembered his life, no blips in the memory other than a few hours during Canary Wharf where it was difficult to piece together everything from that trauma and the bit of time preceding his arrival to Providence Park. There were no gaps after, no missing time or feelings like he was fleeing some great tragedy other than his own relationships. "I struck my head and ended up on anti-psychotics prior to the whole 'Initiation' thing," he supplied, not sure if it had any bearing on the situation but couldn't hurt to share.

Damn himself for believing any of it anyways. He shouldn't trust the Doctor but he did.

A frown creased the Doctor's features as he stared at the banana. "You mentioned that before. Why did they medicate?"

"Hallucinations." A blush crept over his cheeks, spreading like fire until it covered his neck and he was pretty sure if he looked his entire body would be red. He remembered the moment he realized what he was seeing, laughing until he wept with Jack's arms around him. "I kept seeing dead people. I think Tosh guessed it was anything alien, I remember her telling me that at one point while I was sectioned."

"Oh. Oh! Yes. No, Well, of course!" The Doctor's eyes lit up; Ianto had never seen the man so excited, not even when he'd seen the bananas at the tiny breakfast shop. He swore the other man danced a little jig, but that was simply a trick of his eyes in the presence of all the salmon-colored foliage on the trees. The Doctor was positively giddy as he started and stopped sentences half a dozen times, speaking thoughts aloud and jumping to the next before Ianto could follow the logic or even the words.

As much as it disgusted him, Ianto couldn't help but feel a bit excited as well.

"Oh, Mr. Jones, this makes sense now! Unless I'm mistaken, which I rarely am." The grin on the Doctor's face couldn't be broader and Ianto clumsily fumbled with the idea that this man was the same one who'd wrought such destruction. "Spontaneous evolutionary genesis!" He spun on one foot, settling back into step beside Ianto who felt the need to restrain himself from strangling the man to just spit out what he was talking about. "You're not the last of your kind. No no no, that set had problems with the process. Was too weak, couldn't survive its faults.  The H'd-tobi made them vulnerable, the rituals demanding and distracting.  What good were guardians who weren't guarding?"

Ianto warily eyed the Doctor, confused and not certain if he should be offended on behalf of his race.  "I'm not the last of my kind?"  He'd witnessed the Windhovers' destruction, experienced their loss, he knew all had gathered to fend off the Daleks.  If some had survived, wouldn't he have known? 

"No, you're the first of the next!"  The Doctor stopped, hands in his pockets and his action was so sudden it caused his overcoat to swirl about his legs.  Jack had an action much like that and in that brief moment between the Doctor's words, Ianto missed the man terribly despite everything he was learning.  The Doctor barely spared him a moment though, more wrapped up in the discovery and presentation it would seem as he continued exuberantly, "Mr. Jones!  And now begins, the Children of the Windhovers."


	6. Chapter 6

"You've never asked me to prove I am what I say I am." Ianto didn't look up from the page he was reading while he spoke, but he knew what he'd see if he did. The Doctor would be leaning against the door frame again, hands stuffed in his pockets, his overcoat discarded and quite possibly his jacket -- as relaxed as Ianto ever saw him -- either glowing with the internal pleasure he got when he did something good or brooding when something hadn't turned out entirely well. Not that Ianto had been with the Doctor long enough to capture all his moods and quirks, but joining Ianto in the TARDIS' library usually indicated he'd gone off and done whatever deed he'd needed to perform, and he was quite predictable in those responses.

"Nah, I know acting, actors actually, and that wasn't a performance when you saw Halcyon." A rustle of clothing and the pitch of the Doctor's voice changed just slightly; he was moving, then. Probably to the exceedingly comfortable not-leather leather chair the Doctor preferred when he dropped by the room. It was hideously colored -- rather like an orange on the morning after a drinking binge -- but the Doctor always selected it over the other chairs in the grand room that had become Ianto's second home on the TARDIS. "Besides, it'd be rude! You've not asked the same of me."

"You fly about time and space in a TARDIS," Ianto pointed out as he crossed the last 't' in his notes, He laid down the pen with a snapped efficiency and stretched in his chair. Probably the second most comfortable in the room, and conveniently located behind a beautifully engraved wood desk. It was old, as was much in the room; even the tomes lining the shelves were ancient and perfectly preserved, as though not an hour had passed within the room from the time they were brought in to the time Ianto picked them up off the shelf. Perhaps time hadn't passed, it was hard to tell how time worked exactly on the TARDIS and it gave Ianto a headache trying to rationalize. "Not to mention, I know."

Ianto looked up to meet the Doctor's stare, a gaze he no longer shied away from. It wasn't that the Doctor was any less the terrifying man whose list of atrocities made Ianto's hair stand on end and his fury to flare every time he thought about it, much less when he was actually in the Doctor's presence. No, the fight or flight reaction (mostly fight) still kicked in, even before Ianto was truly aware of the Doctor or could physically see him; which was actually a bit of an amusement source to see the Doctor caught off guard when he was unable to sneak up on Ianto. Rather, he believed the confidence came from _knowledge_ , just as old a friend and comfort to Ianto as self-preservation.

When they'd arrived back to the TARDIS after their jaunt to the village on Trahgdar, the Doctor immediately introduced him to the room, though to call it a mere room was understating. It was a library, true to name with shelves upon shelves of books, files, and tablets scattered across multiple levels. Ianto had restrained himself, but barely, from dashing to the shelves to run a curious finger over the worn spines and picking up the first title written in a language he could read, and only because he hadn't wanted to appear too eager in front of the Doctor. That and he didn't know from where and what the books contained; knowledge was something he both craved and feared. That quest had ultimately led Torchwood One to its destruction, an event that had taught Ianto respect.

But somewhere, in those thousands of tomes, could be information about the Windhovers, about _himself_ , and the itch to run to the nearest catalog nearly overpowered Ianto's measured control.

And the Doctor had smiled, like he'd known exactly what effect the library would have on him. Whether that was more stories from Jack (how else had the Doctor known of Ianto's preference for coffee?) or some trait of the Windhovers, Ianto wasn't sure. But the Doctor had wasted no time pointing out the collection he had of Windhover texts, most likely one of only a couple of sources in existence as the Windhovers weren't known for writing anything down. They really had no need for documentation of history.

As with all civilizations, however, there had been storytellers. And poets. And musicians. It was their works which had been transcribed for Ianto to read now, captured forever on paper by individuals Ianto couldn't thank about a people he could never know. But he did know, now, in a fashion. Stories of heroes, tales of ruin, battles between good and evil amongst both the Windhovers themselves and Universes around them spun within his mind as he poured over the texts, only stopping to relieve himself or to get a refill of the coffee-like beverage from the tiny machine tucked in a corner of the library (a gift, surprising Ianto one day after the Doctor had returned from a planet insisting they had wonderful almost-coffee and technology).  Scroll upon scroll of what Ianto shockingly discovered was the Law and Proclamations the Universes were governed by. Or had been. Still was, in a fashion, the Doctor had answered when Ianto had asked. But definitely not what it had once been _before_ , nor probably ever would be again unless the Children rose as their Elders once had.

Children.

Ianto had at first laughed at the Doctor's half-crazed babblings of his theories and ideas. Spontaneous evolutionary genesis? The notion was ludicrous. But the more the Doctor talked and the more Ianto listened, the more plausible the idea became. The Windhovers had not been aware of their ultimate fate, that much was clear to Ianto. Why all had gathered on Halcyon to fight the Daleks he would never understand, and quite possibly would never know, but it had to have been one of the stupidest offensive actions in the history of all histories. Yet not all had agreed with the course -- Ianto had heard that doubt within the vision -- and the Doctor took that as evidence that amidst the Dalek attack at least one progeny had been created and implanted in the fraction of a moment existing just after the Windhovers' tethers had all been severed and before the connection beyond was lost.

At least one.

His mind had simply _stopped_ when that possibility was voiced, an outcome Ianto had never considered.

There might yet be _more_.

He'd almost wept at the thought, though Ianto had managed to contain his emotions while the Doctor looked on, seemingly both pleased with himself and envious. How or why Ianto had no clue, not that he really stopped to consider it. Not when there may be more like him, out in the Universes somewhere, all experiencing the same things he had and feeling just as lost. Perhaps even more so, given the time Ianto was in the employ of Torchwood and in the presence of the Doctor. Just the mere possibility ...

"Yes, you would know." The Doctor leaned back in his chair, long fingers steepled at his lips. He wore his glasses, something Ianto had come to identify as 'Doctor in thinking mode' but if they were just for show or if they actually possessed some alien property which enhanced vision, Ianto didn't know. He'd never asked.

Maybe he should.

The tone the Doctor used just added to Ianto's suspicions, ones he'd never asked but often thought. But there was so much to learn, so much to read about, that Ianto had barely stopped for food much less questions that were not regarding the Windhovers or the Time Lord's associations with them. Limited, those associations, towards the end. 'End' being relative of course, Ianto realized as he was reading, meaning something upwards around a thousand years (Universal Standard, slightly longer than an Earth year, according to an index scroll).

A thousand years. At least.

His brain boggled at the concept. Humans on Earth had come so far in thirty years, much less a thousand. And it wasn't that he couldn't comprehend spans of time passing -- that was perfectly believable. But individuals living that long? That he couldn't imagine. Fuck, that would be Jack, given time. How would that change him, living through all those years, all the developments and evolution, although technically they wouldn't become 'new' until after the 51st century. Would he become more like the Doctor?

Ianto studied the Doctor, knowing full-well that he was being studied in return. Judged? Perhaps. After reading the story of the Great Parting, which read rather like _War and Peace_ , Ianto was amazed that the two races had ever been allies at all. It wasn't that they functioned on scales of good and evil, that was something he could have easily understood (and welcomed), but their fundamental directives were so vastly different it was small wonder they had first disagreements, then arguments, then a complete shunning of the other race. No war; neither race fell to that level. For all appearances, however, the Windhovers simply quit acknowledging the Time Lords and Gallifrey and their preferred course of action. Or inaction, according to the texts.

The Doctor had his own version of the story, Ianto was pretty sure. He just wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear it. Besides, Ianto was doing enough judging of the Doctor to more than excuse any judging on the Doctor's part.

The other man never flinched under his scrutiny, didn't even blink. Unless he blinked when Ianto had, and that physical timing was just too creepy to consider possible. Ianto swore he never even ate, though that could be timing. The Doctor had made several stops during Ianto's stay on board the TARDIS, leaving him to research in the library while he went out and did what he did -- fucking up lives and maybe stopping a person or two from screwing up a timeline. He'd never again invited Ianto off the TARDIS, and Ianto had never asked. Learning everything he could about himself was more important than venturing on to another world in a different time, and he'd assumed it was in part an effort on the Doctor's part to protect Ianto from the supposed 'hunters.'

Ianto didn't doubt those hunters existed; he'd just read a story (a regular spook thriller told much like a James Bond story with secret organizations and special agents) detailing some of the intrigue and chase. He was beginning to doubt, however, the Doctor's motives. "You ought to tell Jack, sometime."

He really did have to give the Doctor credit for the control of his facial expressions. During the hundreds of years he'd lived, the Doctor had mastered the fine art of arching an eyebrow. "Tell him what, exactly?"

"That you care. He'd appreciate it, I think." 'Do as I say...' Ianto sang to himself, considering all the things he'd never said to Jack and never heard in return. He liked to think that in their case, those things were understood. And then there was that dream ... did it count? Maybe it was the same for the Doctor, that they had an understanding, he and Jack. But Jack had returned from his last travels with the Doctor somewhat ... the adoration was still there and he'd demonstrated that so clearly in the Hub. Something was different, though. Something had changed. Not that they'd ever talked about it, one of those subjects Jack had shifted once it was brought up. Unless it was to sing Martha's praises. And sometimes he did; Jack really did have a lovely singing voice.

Not that Ianto had heard it recently, travels on the TARDIS aside. And perhaps not ever again.

"And just how did you come by that conclusion, Mr. Jones?" The Doctor leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, curiosity written in ever line and angle.

"I know." Ianto smiled, might have even meant it for all it felt of regret and loss. "What I can't quite figure out is if he was actually one of the Agents who hunted my kind, or if you just suspect he was."

Ianto knew he was correct when the Doctor didn't move. At all. Just sat there, elbows on his knees with his fingers perched at his lips;  Ianto wasn't sure if he even breathed. Ianto did, huffing a soft puff of air that didn't quite make it as a snort but did qualify for amusement. Not amusement, not really. He just wasn't sure what exactly he was supposed to be feeling at the moment and had opted to push it blindly to the back of his mind until the Doctor arrived.

Now he had to deal with it. Somehow.

He picked up the tome he had been reading, carefully flipped the pages back to the beginning of the chapter he had marked in his notes. Just a couple pages. He hadn't made it beyond writing "Time Agency" in his notes before he'd spoken to the Doctor, and even those two words must have taken hours for him to write as the Doctor had only just left when he'd begun reading the chapter. Ianto replaced the book back on the desk, spun it around and slid it towards the Doctor, taking some small satisfaction at his flinch when he saw the story title.

"Ah, yes. Right." The Doctor picked up the book, flipped a few pages forward and then closed the heavy tome, sliding it back to Ianto. "Not exactly a love story."

This time Ianto acknowledged the snort, both at the themes of the story itself and the fact that he wasn't exactly sure what the Windhover definition of 'love' was, which further confused his own personal definition and experiences. He'd loved Lisa, hadn't he? And his parents. And maybe, well, the less thought about Jack for the time being the better. He thought he loved his Torchwood Three team, even if it was more a fond 'they're family, you have to love them' kind of emotion than a deep-rooted love for another person.

The Windhovers in the texts, however, it was different. They had their Coteries, which were basically family units that were united by common traits, like genetics only without the genes, more direct passing of qualities since they were almost ... copies ... with variations and an individual will that exerted itself from the time of existence.  And then each had their H'd-toba. More than a partner, but not exactly what Ianto would call a 'lover.' Maybe they were. Born together from the same concept of existence, the H'd-tobi pair functioned rather synergistically, rather yin and yang he pictured it. There was no falling in love, they simply _were_ from the time they were 'born' until they ceased to be. Ianto understood now why the Doctor was so insistent in asking where his H'd-toba was -- Windhovers didn't exist without their 'other half'.

Except Ianto did. Somehow.

Spontaneous evolutionary genesis.

But it also explained why the Doctor had laughed, though Ianto had yet to forgive him for that insult. A H'd-tobi relationship between the hunter and its prey? Comedy at its finest, if Ianto was inclined to laugh at that sort of thing. Which he wasn't, not exactly, although he could appreciate the irony. Didn't absolve the Doctor, but then Ianto was inclined to believe that perhaps, over the years before even the Great Parting, perhaps some of the animosity between the species had become ingrained. Was that possible? Perhaps. But Ianto knew he'd be a fool to believe that part of the Doctor's laughter wasn't also connected in some way to the Windhovers.

In fact, Ianto rather believed the Doctor enjoyed possessing the upper hand in the situation, though perhaps the TARDIS fumes were getting to him.

Ianto felt the TARDIS' umbrage and nearly laughed, but opted for restraint as the laughter was equally inappropriate now as it had been at Torchwood during the prelude to his sectioning.

"Not exactly," Ianto agreed with the Doctor, taking the book back with an almost reverent air. It was his history, after all. Not his, the Windhovers. And ... whatever he was. A child, as the Doctor called him. Second evolution of the species. A species that functioned like branches off a universal consciousness, if Ianto were to believe in things like that. Right about now, he was willing to believe in most anything, actually, and if the concept of a universal consciousness was the best his mind could do to process the data it was receiving, then he'd have to make due. Universal consciousness -- like if he had been a musician composing music; perhaps the song may already exist and he simply had to access it and creation was more awareness than innovation, but he had to know what a piano was to compose music for the piano. The Doctor had told him, back during their earlier conversations, that it wasn't that far off the mark. The history and collective knowledge of the Windhovers was there, accessible to Ianto, if he only knew what it was he meant to access. The names, the places, the crimes, the objects; they were all part of the vast collective to which he was a part. Possibly the only part. But a part all the same.

Existing because he believed he existed.

And didn't that just fuck with his head.

The Doctor had tried to explain it but had failed, miserably, attempting to rely on science and maths when even the Doctor knew that would fail since the Windhovers existed where science and maths did not but in conceived form. So Ianto had turned to his one reliable resource which was only as accurate as the original author had penned it.

And hadn't really succeeded any better than when the Doctor had tried to explain it. But the poetry and stories did have a shred of fact to them, which Ianto carefully noted on a tablet he kept by his side at all times. From what Ianto could gather, he believed he existed  in the form that was a blending of his parents because that's what he was raised with. He had aged, even from infancy, seeing primarily his mother and father, and so had subconsciously created himself in their likeness.

He aged because he believed he should age as everyone around him aged and thought he should age as well.

Which raised whole levels of possibility that he struggled to understand at all.

And the Doctor was no help, as he was "a Child of the Windhovers and you have no H'd-toba and you Initiated without your Coterie. You could pass on tomorrow or outlive Jack. Who knows?"

Sometimes, Ianto truly hated the Doctor.

As he did now, straightening the book on the desk until it ran perfectly parallel to the desk's edge. Although he supposed he understood. A little. The Doctor was protecting Jack. Protecting Jack from _him_. Fearing what Ianto would do to him upon his return. He'd laugh if it wasn't so damned ... well, what Ianto would fucking do in the same situation. As if Jack needed protecting; maybe he did. Ianto had to admit he respected the Doctor for that, just a bit.

He didn't want to like the Doctor. He didn't want to trust him, either. The Doctor was a _Time Lord_ , for fuck's sake.

But maybe ...

"Was he?" Ianto asked before he could censor his words, hating how needy he sounded despite knowing he wouldn't give a damn if Jack had. They had all done unforgivables in their pasts, and Jack had forgiven Ianto for his (even if he hadn't yet forgiven himself). If Jack had ... well, Jack had certainly killed humans in his past, did Ianto feel equally affronted about that?

No.

The answer was honestly no and Ianto hated himself for it, his conscience screaming that they hadn't been _hunted_ and that made a difference. Maybe the humans had been hunted as well, but then the Windhover in him screamed for justice instead of revenge.

Ianto knew Jack. He _trusted_ Jack. Fuck, Jack was his still signed as his next of kin. He couldn't be ...

"That's a question you should be asking him," the Doctor finally said, doing nothing to make Ianto loathe him less, even if he did in some ways respect the Doctor for keeping Jack's story. But Ianto wanted answers, not some half-truths or avoidances. He needed to know. Even if it _hurt_ , he needed to know. It couldn't hurt more than it did now, it simply wasn't possible. Though, he knew better than to think in possibilities. The least expect most often ended up being true. "But remember, Mr. Jones," the Doctor removed his glasses, waving them at Ianto like a sort of flag to empathize his point. "His are not the only secrets."

Well, shit.

Ianto fixated on his own hands, so much safer than looking at the Doctor, whose face, Ianto knew, searched his for understanding and acknowledgment. Fuck, he wasn't even sure how to take the last statement of the Doctor's. Was it a threat? Would the Doctor tell Jack Ianto's secrets if Ianto pushed for Jack's? That'd be blackmail, though why that should surprise Ianto he didn't know. The Doctor was protecting Jack, had been since first showing Ianto the library knowing exactly what kind of reaction (lust, craving, want) that it would inspire in Ianto. Hell, before then. Had been since first telling Ianto not to use his ... Windhover ability ... to travel to another place, another time. To return home. Ianto couldn't imagine it had anything to do with protecting _him_ so much as it was delaying when Ianto returned to Cardiff, returned to Jack.

Or maybe it did.

Damned if he knew.

"Are you holding me prisoner, then?" Ianto traced the title of the book, engraved into the surface just a fraction of an inch, rather than address the Doctor himself. It was childish, he knew, it went against everything Torchwood One and his youth had taught him. One looked their aggressor in the eyes to show them that fear and submission were not lurking within, and even if they were one learned to pretend otherwise. During his youth it had earned him respect and often kept food on the table; at Torchwood One it had kept harassment over his lack of credentials at bay, and at Torchwood Three it had probably saved his job and his memory.

He just ... couldn't look. He was too damned confused, there was too much swirling around in his head, he was on a bloody spaceship trapped with a terrifying man who loved bananas, and the things he learned about himself may or may not be accurate because hey, he was apparently a new evolution of his species. He didn't even know how to fucking _reproduce_ (if he were so inclined) because he had no H'd-toba and that nixed everything the Doctor knew about the Windhovers. There was just something so fundamentally flawed about that.

And there was a small part of him which pointed out that maybe he subconsciously thought it'd be better for him to stay on the TARDIS (prisoner or no) than return to Torchwood. And Jack. And _knowing_ yet having to act natural despite the question that was on the tip of his tongue.

But Jack was a good person. Ianto trusted him with his life, if just not his secret. Not yet.

Weren't these internal arguments becoming familiar and repetitive. As was disappearing on Jack, which he'd done twice now, though this time was beyond his control.

"Prisoner? Never. Intentionally distract you? Well..." The Doctor stretched the word 'well' out so long and with such humor that Ianto glanced up out of surprise, rather than purpose. A self-satisfied grin stretched across the Doctor's face, making Ianto truly begin to wonder just how long he'd been on the TARDIS, tucked away in the library.

At least he'd bathed periodically.

The smirk faded, though the serious expression was honest, now. Times were few when Ianto believed that what he saw matched in the Doctor's eyes. Sometimes it came close; moments of enthusiastic glee which seemed to transform the Doctor, or when Ianto was so overwhelmed by a sense of loss that the Doctor hinted he might possibly understand. Those were the times when Ianto _couldn't_ hate him, no matter what the Windhover figurative database had detailed.

He almost saw what attracted Jack to the man.

"You needed time, Mr. Jones, time, answers, and a safe haven. I could provide all three." The Doctor's eyes flashed over Ianto, such an assessing glance that Ianto would have felt unnerved had he not become desensitized through exposure to Jack. "Besides, you're not the first Windhover who has joined me on the TARDIS."

 _The clothes_ , Ianto foolishly realized, barely keeping himself from flushing an outrageous shade of red. He'd gotten so used to the slatted shirts he rarely wore a jacket over them; in fact, he'd essentially forgotten they weren't _his_. The suit he'd been wearing when he'd been hijacked off Earth hung in the wardrobe as well, neatly pressed and ready to wear again when he chose. Ianto just ... hadn't. There was something that drew him to the Windhover clothes, perhaps nostalgia of a time he'd never known. He'd stayed away from the body armor, some metal some leather-like, and some of the more feminine-appearing shirts. But much of it made him feel ... comfortable. Connected. He supposed he ought to thank the Doctor at some point.

"I thought the two races shunned contact after the Great Parting?" Ianto asked instead, shoving thanks aside with the revelation of the Time Agency's secret operations in pursuit of the Windhovers (though they had not been alone, they were simply the only name Ianto personally recognized) and reproduction as topics he truly did not want to deal with. Perhaps he never would.

"Oh, there were a few rebellious sort who broke the rules." From the proud tone, Ianto assumed that one of the few may have included the Doctor.  "But those are stories for another time.  We need to make you feel less like a prisoner on the TARDIS."  The Doctor grandly pretended to mull over the idea, but Ianto didn't believe it for a second.  This was planned, staged and choreographed.  "Oh!  I know this lovely planet where the ground is pink and the sky is green.  They fly kites on holiday."

Ianto wondered how long the Doctor had this idea in mind, but eventually decided that he didn't care.  Fresh air would do him good, even if the sky was green and his skin might turn pink from dust particles in the air. 

Anything was currently better than thinking.  And Ianto was almost afraid to find out what else he would find in the books.


	7. Chapter 7

Ianto brushed his hands off on his trousers, scowling when the pink particulates did as he'd intended - departed from his hands and replaced themselves on his clothing. But now his trousers were soiled and if there was anything he detested more, it was dirty clothing. Dirty _Windhover_ clothing at that.

At least they hadn't been damaged when the building had collapsed. That would have been unforgivable.

He'd meant the action to have a calming effect. Didn't work.

Not even close. Fuck, his hands _shook_ from anger and restraint.

The Doctor stood near the TARDIS' main console, hands stuffed in his pockets looking remarkably dust-free, which only served to anger Ianto more. Anger as heavy and cloying as the dust which had threatened to choke him when the Rodan's evacuation ship had exploded, so heavy he could barely breathe. Not that he was furious that the ship had exploded with the entire governing body inside; the bastards deserved a much slower punishment for all Ianto was concerned.

They'd enslaved an entire population. Actually, not an entire population, but an entire _planet_.

Justice meted.

Not perfectly; Ianto still had no clue what course of action was preferred. Arrest? He couldn't have very well arrested the lot, there were no courts, no trials, no governing body of Windhovers standing watch to ensure the Laws were followed. Except for him. And he knew every Law they were breaking, every instance of conflict with the Shadow Proclamation, every detail down to the last Code violation. And he was fucking stymied by his own failure to understand _how_ despite it screaming _necessary_ through every fiber of his being.

The Doctor had done something to disable the Rodans' communications with his sonic screwdriver, and Ianto had stood by and watched him do it. Just watched. Watched and rather feared for his life as the Rodan army gathered and the leaders had begun shouting at the Doctor. But Ianto had watched and did the one thing he knew how to do: he worked on devising a method to ensure the government got their due and to escape.

Not that his plans had mattered, in the end.

The ship with the escaping Rodans had exploded, the Hall of Government collapsing in the wake of the blast.

And Ianto had felt satisfied.

No, that wasn't the source of his anger. Nor was it the Doctor's, whose temper looked to be boiling just beneath the surface as well. Maybe it wasn't anger; Ianto couldn't tell. Didn't very much care, truth be told. Whatever it was, the Doctor was not happy. With him.

Which also satisfied Ianto as he was equally as unhappy with the Doctor.

Defiantly, Ianto raised his chin as he pulled the Blaster 201SX Series off his shoulder and checked the safety. Not a very creative name for the energy weapon of the Rodan, but effective. Especially against the Rodan.

He'd saved the life of a Naveed, one of the native people on the planet. It was worth every ounce of the Doctor's ire.

Quickly dismantling the weapon (he knew how, he just didn't know how he knew), Ianto destroyed the charge crystal and firing block, effectively turning the weapon into nothing more than a child's toy, and turned back to the TARDIS doors, throwing the pieces out because he knew _she_ didn't like the weapon on board.

He didn't give a damn what the Doctor felt, though Ianto knew full-well that the other man loathed the device being on the TARDIS. Hell, he hadn't even liked the weapon being _used_.

Used. To save a life.

Of course, the Doctor's displeasure may have had something to do in part with Ianto directly disobeying his commands to run and return to the TARDIS. Disorder and panic had swirled around them, a rebellious uprising against the remaining Rodan army by the Naveed. And this one had needed to be saved. Or at least Ianto couldn't stand back and allow him to die, not with the training he'd received from Jack. So he'd broken away, raced to where he had heard the struggle, and protected the Naveed, discharging the Blaster 201SX Series he'd lifted off a fallen Rodan along the way.

He'd disobeyed the Doctor and saved a life, one that had given his thanks and updated Ianto quickly on their rebellion and rescue efforts to assist the Naveed trapped within the remains of the Halls of Government.

Fucking Time Lords anyway.

Ianto had no more than closed the TARDIS door than the Doctor began furiously punching buttons and pulling levers, programming a destination of who knew where, maybe back to Cardiff where the Doctor would drop-kick him to the curb. Perfectly agreeable situation, at this point in time. At any time, really.

The TARDIS lurched to a halt, stopping at some where and when, at the Doctor's whim and desire. Ianto didn't care, he'd take a black hole if it meant getting away from the man. He knew it wasn't all situational, that watching the fall of the Hall of Government and the Doctor's departure from the scene struck a nerve far too close to personal for him to ignore. But there was an underlying ... expectation. Predictability. Ianto just didn't know _why_.

Or maybe he did know. Fuck he wasn't sure of anything any more within his own mind.

"Small wonder we parted ways."  Ianto turned his gaze up towards the ceiling, refusing to continue to look at the Doctor who quite literally glowered from his stance near the console, never speaking a word but Ianto could almost hear the tirade.  Did the Doctor tirade?  Ianto decided it would be worth the effort to see, because then at least any shouting on his part would be justifiable.  "That's what Time Lords do, yeah?  Sit back idly and watch civilizations fall unless it serves you to act at all."

"Spoken like a Windhover," scoffed the Doctor, sounding closer to Ianto's ears than his distance ought to have pitched.  Lowering his gaze, Ianto felt his jaw clench, teeth grinding against each other until he forcibly stilled it.  The Doctor _was_ closer, leaning with arms crossed against a pillar, a casual pose that Ianto knew was anything but.  Not that he believed the Doctor would actually physically _fight_.  No, that was beneath him.  "You lot never once thought about the consequences, always wandering in, mucking about with things you couldn't possibly understand."

"Right."  Ianto laughed, more a bark than a laugh for as sharp as it sounded to his ears.  Mucking about.  He was pretty sure the Naveed he saved wouldn't call it 'mucking about'.  And what had been so wrong about that?  The Rodan soldier had been unjustified in his actions, and despite the destruction of the governing body, was still killing the Naveeds.  There were so many violations of Law Ianto could have spent hours detailing it.  In the end, he hadn't needed to.  The Rodan had turned a weapon on him and he'd fired without hesitation, just as Jack and Torchwood One had trained him.  Of course the Doctor would call it 'mucking about' - the Doctor had started it when he'd landed on the planet and 'accidentally' ended up confronting the controlling Rodans.  The uprising wouldn't have started had the Rodans not tried to flee.  

"You go flitting about the Universe in your little ship," Ianto continued, ignoring any soothing attempts by the TARDIS as he _felt_ every crime the Doctor was responsible for.  Windhover-instinct or purely human Ianto had no clue, he found the more he knew about himself the less he knew, but there was little doubt of his anger. "Dip your fingers into grand situations that you deem worthy of your effort, then dash off before you see consequences other than how it affects your bloody timelines."  Anger.  The whole fucking bridge was filled with anger and not all of it his.  "How many lives will you destroy in the name of 'good' in order to assuage your guilt?"     

"You know nothing."  The words spoken by the Doctor were more warning than commentary on Ianto's intelligence, he could hear it the way 'nothing' sparked off the Doctor's tongue to envelop the space within the TARDIS.  Warning, and even if Ianto hadn't turned to look, he would have known it.  But he did turn, the Doctor appearing the same as he'd always seen but it was the eyes that just seemed _ancient_.  Warning indeed.  "You're just a child of a race no better than the Judoon."

Ianto felt the slap of the words even if there was nothing physical and fuck if his proverbial feathers didn't ruffle in affront.  If he wore his Windhover wings they probably would have been; as it was, his fingernails dug into his palms and he swore he could feel the heat radiating off his body as he demonstrated what he thought was considerable restraint.  

He and the Judoon were _nothing_ alike. They were mercenaries who enjoyed the hunt and kill.  He didn't ... he didn't know what the hell the Windhovers did when arresting and sentencing someone, but it wasn't killing.  He knew it wasn't.  And though it may be a last resort in the name of protecting a life, they didn't kill for pleasure.  _He_ didn't kill for pleasure.  

He didn't.  

The Windhovers didn't.

Ianto _knew_.  

With a start, his eyes narrowed as he realized the Doctor was goading him.  Maybe not goading; intentionally striking to hurt with barbs that felt as ancient as the storm behind his eyes.  Well, fuck him.  "Canary Wharf."

"What?"  Ianto almost smirked at the incredulity frozen on the Doctor's face.  Almost.  And he was rather glad he hadn't when the tableau shattered and animation vibrated every limb of the Doctor before he shoved his hands in his pockets and paced furiously, long coat swirling with each turn.  Jaguar; smooth and graceful, power barely contained.  "I stopped two invasions Torchwood was ignorant enough to start!"  

"And then you left, just like today, without bothering to check for survivors.  Duty done, after all," Ianto sneered, using a tone only Owen heard.  It sounded without effort, his voice too hard and tensely coiled to crack while memories of that day replayed in his head.  Coworkers panicked, screaming as they ran while the Cybermen aimed their weapons at the ones who didn't halt.  Crackles of the radios while agents shouted for backup to confront the Daleks, to confront the Cybermen, but it was too much technology , too much power, too much _metal_ to fight when they were simply too human.  And the rubble and bodies, smoking in the corridors when silence fell, the awe of salvation overpowering, for a moment, all pain.  

And then the screaming had begun anew, fresh wails of agony and pleading for death.  Metal parts and bleeding skin.  "Drop in, leave a footprint so people will know you were there, then off again before you learn any of the faces you're leaving behind."  Ianto continued his tirade, for that's what it was, never stopping or pausing. Ianto didn't even think it was about the Time Lords and Windhovers now.  Maybe it never was.  Maybe it _always_ was.  "We burned, Doctor.  Innocents died.  And you left, just like today.  What good are your fucking timelines if you abandon the people in them?"

"You fool."  The Doctor's voice came out as a hiss, barely audible over the harsh sounds of someone's breathing.  _His_ , Ianto belatedly realized, the sudden awareness surprising him to silence.  "You were all fools, thinking you could protect everyone, and look where it got you?"  Ianto flinched, but didn't look away, couldn't move, really.  "Didn't care about the ripples you caused saving one more life, just thought yourselves untouchable angels."

Ianto stubbornly squared his jaw, knowing the Doctor was wrong.  He was _wrong_.; The Windhovers had been successful with their Laws and enforcement; their stories and poems had been filled first with the creation and then the progression to enforcement.  And they'd done _good_.  He knew they had.  There'd been some rogue Coteries, but for the most part, people had lived because of them.  Or at least they'd tried.  

Hadn't they?  

No. The Doctor was wrong.  Ianto knew he was.  He _knew_.  The Doctor had left and Lisa had ... and he'd ... Fuck him.  And the Time Lords. They'd ignored the Windhovers'.  Didn't fit into their crucial timelines.  Hell, even his mind sneered the word in mockery.  Where were they now?  Off watching the genesis of a star or arguing amongst themselves whether they should intervene in a planet's collapse or spend their time twiddling with Distributed Cluster Algebra.  Not that Ianto knew what the hell that was and it meant fuck all to most of the Universes but it was more important than trying to save one life.  "And you all think you're bloody gods."     
   
Silence.  

He counted his breaths - twenty-seven - between his last word and any reaction on the Doctor's face.  Trouble was, Ianto couldn't define what that reaction was when it did happen, flashing across his eyes, his lips; even his hair appeared to express whatever it was the Doctor was thinking.  Being.  And for a moment, all Ianto could feel was grief.  

And only for a moment, because he was the first to move and the first to leave, escaping out of the bridge of the TARDIS not in a run but in haste.  He didn't understand.  Any of it.  All of it.  Ianto felt both guilty as hell for what he said and yet justified, and he couldn't read the Doctor.  He'd just stood there, a mask so thick Ianto couldn't tell if he was about to strike Ianto down or hug him, though hugging was likely not on the Doctor's list.  Only his eyes said anything at all and they no longer looked ancient just ... old.  

Old and .. other.  Something.  Something that scared the shit out of Ianto.  

That's it.  He was fucking _terrified_ but he didn't know why.  Maybe that's why he'd left the bridge, afraid he'd crossed a line.  No, Ianto knew he had, but that didn't matter.

He was scared.  Not scared of the Doctor, he was just a bloody Time Lord.  _Just_.  He could hear the laughter in his mind, and had to agree that had been a bit arrogant for someone who didn't even know how to fucking reproduce.  Create more.  To do...

And that was it.  He was scared of himself.  For everything he knew, he understood even less.  Ianto had no clue why he was so angry with the Doctor and yet he had reasons that made sense.  He didn't know who he was or what any of it meant any longer.  What _life_ meant.  Which was absurd because apparently Windhovers didn't live they _existed_.  They were.  Somehow.  Which followed no bloody logic and if he couldn't understand what he was how the hell was he to do anything?  How could he _be_ Windhover?

He terrified himself.  

And whether it had been a reflection of himself or the Doctor within those eyes that looked so old, Ianto rather thought the terror was the same.

***

The sound of the door opening didn't startle him; Ianto had known the Doctor was standing outside the moment the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.  For a while, Ianto almost thought he was going to just leave; it wasn't like Ianto was getting into any trouble sitting on the steps leading into the TARDIS' garden.  Not that he'd even picked the garden as his destination, he hadn't really had a plan quite honestly but the door he opened which he thought was going to be his bedroom ended up being the entrance to a truly magnificent garden.

He must have made a wrong turn, somewhere.  Though he'd never made one before and it wasn't like he was so distressed that he was out of sorts.

At least he didn't think so.  He may feel a bit like he had when he was a teen and just needed to _run_ , just for an hour, to escape his mother's latest slip, but he wasn't completely distressed.  Air, and quiet.  This place ... it provided it all. 

The garden was breathtaking in size and beauty, making Ianto wonder if it was something the Doctor had cultivated or if it was more the TARDIS' doings.  Plants and flowers of every imaginable shape and color lined pathways and beds, filling the room with the scent of blossoms and, well, _dirt_ , but it was a richer, organic smell than that.  Deeper, and definitely not originating from Earth.  Ianto imagined that if the soil was taken to Earth and crops grown, the harvest would be remarkable.  Maybe.  Maybe it really was just dirt.

A fountain curved its way to the ceiling in the middle of the garden, looking impossible in all its splendor as it seemed to defy gravity.  Or rather, the water seemed to, spilling off the fountain's branches in all ways but _down_ to strike the next twist and follow its path.  Ianto had lost himself in the design, trying to trace the water's flow, but eventually he had to stop for fear his mind would just rebel from what appeared impossible.

Not all the impossible was actually that, he was learning.  And a stunning fountain backlit by the stars with water that flowed up and sideways and diagonally would just have to be admired, rather than questioned.  And for once, his mind remained silent, didn't detail the mineral properties of the marble-crystal-looking sculpture, didn't tell him what technology was being used to make the water travel as it did.  It simply _was_ , and Ianto could appreciate the artistry in that.

What actually had surprised Ianto was when the Doctor had sat down on the step right next to him, literally in his personal space and almost awkwardly close.  Thigh-to-thigh, hip-to-hip; Ianto couldn't move his shoulders at all without brushing against the Doctor's.  But the Doctor didn't move, didn't correct the placement of his arse on the step, instead he handed Ianto a shallow cup - crystal?  Maybe glass.  He was pretty sure it was alcohol in the decanter the Doctor poured from, however.  Poured two glasses of the amber beverage and held his up for a toast. 

Very strange.  Very odd.  And completely unexpected. 

The Doctor drank?

Ianto for one was relieved for the feeling of 'normal' as he clinked his glass against the Doctor's; it would have been rude for him not to but he didn't voice a toast.  Didn't quite know what to say, and it had always served him best to say nothing at all under those circumstances.  The drink looked like a fine whiskey, though the nose told him nothing as it didn't smell of any whiskey he knew.  It tasted ... something sweet, like honey only less sugar-sweet and more ...  gold tingling his taste buds.  A hint of bitter, dry and rough as it settled full on his tongue.  And ... green.  Could the color green have a taste?  Cool and fresh, yet at the same time dark and alive.  Not literally, Ianto was firmly against consuming anything that might squirm in his mouth, but he could taste it, that feeling one got in the spring when everything was in bloom, or a near-death experience when one realized they still breathed.  It had a flavor upon his tongue.

Definitely alcohol, though.  He could feel it burn a path down his throat, hit his stomach and almost ... splash out, instantly spilling golden-tingling warmth throughout his body.  Truly exquisite, and Ianto swore he could feel the smile on the Doctor's face as he must have enjoyed the same.  Ianto didn't know for sure, though, the Doctor may have been scowling for all Ianto determinedly did not look at the man.  Their earlier confrontation still rang in his ears and he didn't know whether to apologize or renew it; he was pretty sure the Doctor hadn't forgotten it so soon either. 

So they didn't say anything at all, which made the company almost ... pleasant.  Didn't mean Ianto wasn't intensely aware of the man while they sat like conjoined twins staring at the fountain in the center of the garden and sipped alien alcohol in tandem.  Whether it was the subdued anxiety that was always present when the Doctor was around that currently was more muted than loud or the physical touch of another that made Ianto relax, he wasn't sure. Given it was the Doctor he shouldn't have relaxed at all.  He unwound all the same, grounded by the solid, immovable wall which had inexplicably planted himself right beside Ianto.

And refilled their glasses when both their drinks were gone.

"Rose Tyler."

Ianto blinked as the silence vanished, broken by a name that some how sounded familiar to him but foreign all the same.  He knew that name, not through the Windhovers or anything of the sort, but he'd seen it somewhere.  

"I lost her, at Canary Wharf."  Ah, that was how Ianto knew her.  Her name had been on the list of the missing, presumed dead - along with far too many others.  He felt the words he'd spoken earlier creep into his throat, choking off any attempt to speak.  Which apparently suited the Doctor as he continued.  "Well, not that I lost her-lost her.  I know exactly where she is, so I suppose she isn't lost, more cosmically displaced in a parallel universe." Ianto had no idea how that was possible, but he still wasn't entirely sure of how the Doctor had defeated the Daleks and Cybermen either.  Had he sent them to a parallel world, to threaten someone else?  The idea was disturbing and upset some of the calm Ianto had been feeling.  "Very nearly sucked into the Void when Pete saved her, but trapped her in his world.  All the powers of a god, Mr. Jones, and she's beyond my reach."

Ianto didn't miss the bitter, self-mocking tone at the end of what the Doctor had said, and even if he had missed it, the slight shoulder nudge he received would have clued him in.  Did the Doctor honestly think he was that dense?  Owen, maybe.

"Lisa Hallett," Ianto stated after taking a moment to address the matter of 'courage' by taking a sip of his drink.  Not that it helped, but he did understand, for once, the Doctor's motives.  "She survived the initial incursion as a partially converted Cyberman.  I tried to save her.  Thought I could."  Ianto's smile felt more like a grimace for all he'd intended it to be regretful reminiscence.  Fuck, the ripples it'd caused.  "She killed two before Jack- before Torchwood Three could stop her."  The glass in his hand provided a good distraction as he swirled the liquid, watching the amber color cling briefly to the edges before sinking back into the pool.  He did wonder, for a moment, if he stood next to the fountain would his drink just continue its movement upwards?  "I think," Ianto scowled as he tried to voice his next thoughts, but no matter what words he came up with, it just sounded wrong given what he knew now.  "She tried to kill me," he settled on, tapping a finger against the glass, "and I still couldn't stop trying."

 _'Because I loved her,'_ went without saying, though neither spoke a word once Ianto finished talking.  There were thousands of recriminations Ianto supposed he deserved, especially following what the Doctor had said - and who he'd lost.  Hell, he'd inadvertently nearly rekindled the invasion the Doctor had stopped because Ianto simply hadn't considered what could happen if she had been too far gone.  

Course, the Doctor hadn't stopped to think of the twenty-seven survivors either.  Maybe he had, and simply didn't care.  

It was petty and self-centered, Ianto knew, but to him it was important.  Even if the Doctor had been immersed in grief for losing Rose, he could have helped while Torchwood One fell.  Maybe more would have survived.  Maybe Lisa ... talk about ripples.

Or maybe he was still looking for someone to blame.

Which made it all the more confusing, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh with the man while they drank alien alcohol and stared at a fountain that flowed up.

"I owe you an apology."  Ianto knew he did, but that didn't make the words any easier to force off his tongue.  The alcohol helped a bit, smoothing out the edges, but it still felt like petting a hedgehog the wrong way.  

"Nah.  You were right."  Ianto couldn't stop himself from looking at the Doctor in surprise, an action not overtly witnessed by the other man as he continued to watch the fountain, but Ianto saw the slight curl of a smile touch the Doctor's lips.  Oh, he'd been seen alright.  "And so was I.  This isn't the first time these arguments have been made, Mr. Jones, though before there were far more robes and fancy speak and absolutely no Meentak wine.  Which was most unfortunate as the whole lot of them were so dreadfully boring."

Ianto snorted in amusement before he could check himself, mentally absolving himself by deciding that it must have been the Meentak wine, not any sort of congeniality found in the Doctor's words or attitude.  He was supposed to loathe the man.  Wasn't he?  He had a list of reasons why he ought to, but a list of contrary reasons was rapidly growing as well which begged the question, _'was he wrong?_ '  

He wasn't sure which terrified him more; that the information was faulty or for having believed so quickly that it could be as simple as black and white.

"Ianto," he corrected, not really sure if it was the Doctor's preference to refer to someone by their last name or if it had been merely politeness after having had a gun directed on him as their first introduction.  But they were long past such formalities, though Ianto knew better than to refer to the Doctor by his name.  There were some things one simply did not do and Ianto knew this was to be respected without question.  

The Doctor looked quite pleased with himself as he topped off their glasses, but Ianto refrained from retracting his permission just to be difficult.  Barely.  He may have bitten his tongue in the process, but he would always deny if ever asked.

"Ianto."  The Doctor repeated the name like he was practicing it, though Ianto knew it hadn't been the first time he'd used it.  He did say it with the proper accent, unlike Jack's "Yan-toe" which should have annoyed him but was more endearing than not.  "You ought to tell Jack."  Ianto couldn't help the scowl as he remembered having said the same thing to the Doctor in regards to the man's care for Jack, and he couldn't believe the Doctor was throwing it back at him.  Especially now.  "Contrary to how the situation was resolved with the Cyberman, he holds no prejudices against species."   

 _Ah._   Was that why he was wary of telling Jack, because he believed it possible that Jack might kill him as a consequence of being alien?  Perhaps subconsciously, because he still remembered Jack standing with the smoking gun?  

Ianto gave the idea time to crawl across his mind, encountering all logic and emotional pitfalls along the way, including an instinctual need for secrecy borne of being Windhover.  That wasn't imagined, he'd felt the same reservations in the company of Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy.  And even with the Doctor.  But how much of it was just the Windhover, and how much of it was an honest fear of Jack?  

Fuck, he had no clue.  

But he knew it wasn't entirely their shared past with Lisa.  "And if he hunted my kind during his time at the Time Agency?"  And it also wasn't just his fear that Jack would attempt to kill him.  "Or if my Coterie was one that ought to have been hunted?"  Because there had been those Coteries, rogue Coteries and criminal Coteries, breaking the same Laws that the others fought to enforce.  Ianto had read those tales, of the epic battles between a lawful and criminal Windhover Coterie, chasing each other about the Universes and time.  None of those had a happy ending, for any involved. 

And he still knew nothing.

"Nearly all races had divisions which sought to capture or destroy the Windhover, Ianto.  Even mine."  The Doctor smirked, pausing a moment with his glass to his lips.  "Human kind is not an exception."  Ianto's breath caught and he swore his heart rate irrationally quadrupled in the span between the Doctor's words and the time it took for him to take a drink.  A thousand thoughts twisted into a tangled, panicked heap in his gut before Ianto could calm himself.  If the Doctor meant to kill him, he'd have had ample opportunity already.  Although, it could be argued that he had been captured, even though the Doctor insisted that he was not a prisoner aboard the TARDIS.  And Ianto would like to believe him unconditionally on that fact, if he was to believe anything at all.  "Well, they did infiltrate our ranks with a Coterie that identified as Time Lords.  How you managed that gave us fits when it was discovered.  I thought it was rather brilliant, myself.  Imagine that, Windhover Time Lords!  Completely outside of possible, yet there it was!"

Ianto didn't say anything as he had no idea why it was so impossible for Windhovers to be Time Lords when Windhovers could be humans or apparently any race they wished to intermingle with.  Intermingle was perhaps the wrong word.  Blend?  The Doctor had taken the time to explain the whole identification concept as best he could explain it when Ianto had asked if he could take any form he wished, since he existed more as a concept than an actual physical being.  A complex babbling of rationale later, and Ianto thought he understood it to an extent.  Technically, he could, and the older more experienced Windhovers most likely could.  But since he was raised believing fully that he was human with the face that he wore, it was difficult to get past the intense self-identification.  He looked like 'Ianto' when he changed to his Windhover form because he believed so internally that he was 'Ianto.'  To change form or face would run against such a strong belief.  

That session made his head hurt trying to grasp the idea.

But what the Doctor had said about Windhover Time Lords, and how he spoke with such eager wonder, left Ianto wondering if perhaps that wasn't the answer to the clothing stored on the TARDIS and that he now wore.  Bit unnerving, really, he'd avoided the thought that he was wearing someone else's clothing by just leaving it generalized 'made for Windhovers.'  But if a Windhover Time Lord had possibly traveled with the Doctor in the past, maybe because the Doctor was what, unwilling to turn them over?  

That put a major kink in how Ianto viewed the Doctor.  

"Stand up."  

Ianto blinked at the sudden command and the sudden loss of 'wall' next to him which caused him to shift to the side before he could correct the movement.  Warily he stood, because if there was anything he'd learned during his time with the Doctor, one could never predict what mood or action he would take next. He kept his drink, however.  It was too good to discard, plus, whatever the Doctor intended might just require a drink.  

"Will you show me?"

For a moment - and only the briefest of moments that he would ever admit to - Ianto interpreted the Doctor's request as he wished to see Ianto's cock.  Alarmed, it finally occurred to him that he'd been around Jack apparently far more than proper because instead of an innocent request, it morphed into something sex-related, and while Jack might think it amusing or even a positive quality, Ianto found it disturbing at best.

That the one soliciting the response was the Doctor, and Ianto's mind had dipped to where it had, made it all the more humiliating.    

Ianto quickly shoved the thought aside, praying to every deity he knew that the Doctor was not a mind-reader.  He had asked with a certain respect, as though he would consider it an honor.  The 'why' escaped Ianto, but given that the Doctor had never before asked to see, he had to wonder if there wasn't some kind of secrecy involved in revealing his Windhover form.  Form in this Universe, Ianto corrected himself as he was fairly certain that beyond the Veil he would exist as ... some thing else.  Technically not 'thing' as things simply weren't beyond the Veil but he wouldn't look as he appeared now.   

The Doctor was asking Ianto to show _himself_.

Rather than question it, Ianto believed there was a sort of ... intimacy ... about revealing what the Doctor was asking for.  Maybe not intimacy, but definitely a level of trust that Ianto hadn't believed existed between them.  Or perhaps maybe it did.  The Windhovers shrouded themselves in masks of perfect species identity, for goodness sakes, passing themselves off completely as though they were actually that race.  Fooling all equipment.   Even TARDIS'.  

It just wasn't done.

At least not often.

He'd been unnerved back at Lester's, preferring to avoid scrutiny than engage socially with all who stepped into Lester's home.  Was there more to that than Ianto finding solace, hiding in shame of _wings_ and avoiding the stares at the marks upon his skin?

Possible, he supposed.

Not like he knew anything to give a definitive anyways.

But the Doctor had asked.  That meant ... something.

Of course, it could be an elaborate ploy for Ianto to reveal himself to a Windhover hunter who would then use his superior knowledge to kill him before Ianto could draw a breath.  A most positive thought, he chided himself, but the fear once considered didn't go away.  

He had another option, not to do anything at all.  Refuse the Doctor.  He'd only asked, after all.

Ianto looked at the glass in his hand before drinking the contents in one go and handing the glass back to the Doctor.  Not that there had been anything more than a swig remaining, but he felt a bit like a man approaching his death enjoying his last meal.  And really, if his last taste was going to be Meentak wine, Ianto supposed life could have been worse.  

Focusing inward, Ianto touched the _something_ that he instinctively was aware of but knew wouldn't exist on any scanning device.  Focused and felt the slight give of fabric at his back as the heady rush of _home_ for a moment clouded his mind, filling his whole being with a rush of purple-grey and the taste of Meentak wine.  Not that it actually tasted, but if it had a flavor it would be that wine, Ianto decided.  

He stretched his wings, unencumbered as they were by the vast space of the garden with the fountain that flowed up.  And out.  And every direction except where one would assume it'd flow.  It'd been so long since he'd existed as ... this - as _himself_ \- and the shift was breathtaking.  Not that he felt any different, not really.  Everything smelled the same as it had, sounded the same as it had, even looked the same.  Nothing was different - aside from the wings and the marks, Ianto supposed - other than just simply ... being.  

A smile grew, one that Ianto couldn't stop had he tried, not that he made any great effort.  He'd just forgotten what it was like; although maybe he'd never felt the relief before.  Ianto had been in such fear and confusion at Lester's that even had he wanted to enjoy the experience, he couldn't.  And after leaving Lester's, well, he'd never changed back.  Too afraid he'd be caught.  Too afraid Jack would know.  Too afraid of well, being anything other than _human_.

But on the TARDIS...

"Oh, now aren't you beautiful."

Ianto remembered quickly that he wasn't the only one in the garden, in fact, he kicked himself for _not_ remembering.  It was the Doctor.  He should be aware of the Doctor even if Ianto hadn't been concerned for his own safety and the other man's possibly nefarious motivations.  But he'd forgotten, for a moment.  

And that moment had been wonderful.

The Doctor, to his credit, didn't appear murderous to Ianto, which quickly diminished any anxiety he felt over his brief inattention.  He looked ... both somber and ecstatic, serene and excited, like Christmas and Remembrance Day and a birthday all rolled into one, a combination of expressions which Ianto knew couldn't possibly exist on a human.  

Ianto could see grief too, and he assumed that the Doctor may have known some Windhover rather well.

The Doctor took one step forward, then stopped, seeming as though he'd surprised himself.  "May I?"  

Nodding because he really didn't understand what the Doctor was asking for and he felt it rather embarrassing to have him clarify, Ianto stood impossibly still as the Doctor approached, the little corner of doubt reviving as the other man stepped closer.  

"Black was the sole color of the R'te-phire Coterie, and only the R'te-phire bore that color in its purest shade as you do," the Doctor began, standing close enough for Ianto to hug without reaching, if he'd wanted.  Apparently the Doctor hadn't learned the rules of personal space, but Ianto didn't move.  He couldn't.  

 _R'te-phire_.  

The name turned over and over in his mind, spinning wildly while Ianto tried to remember to breathe.  Something.  He knew _something_ about himself.  About ... shit.  He could feel his whole body tremble, every last feather in his wings quiver with the knowledge, and Ianto hoped the Doctor wouldn't notice.  Not that he cared particularly.  _R'te-phire_.  But the Doctor made it difficult to ignore him, his hands flashing over Ianto's face that took a moment before he realized-

The Doctor was reading.

"Color of your wings designates the Coterie, and your markings, Ianto of the R'te-phire," the Doctor spoke the name again and Ianto memorized it, implanted the sounds and the twists so he'd never forget it, he swore not even in death would he forget it.  "Your markings tell of your lineage, the titles and the history, in every curve and straight line."  A finger followed a coil into his hairline before tracing a delicate line just under his eye.  Ianto would have moved, but he couldn't.

 _R'te-phire_.

"Not typically human identification, perhaps they were desperate and couldn't take the time ah, yes, an ancient Coterie and an equally old H'd-tobi, they would have known.  Of course they had known, they couldn't possibly have not known given who they, oh.  Well, now that's very interesting."  

The Doctor's hands had moved to his neck when they paused, the sudden complete lack of movement feeling as jarring had Ianto been the one in motion.    

Had Ianto been capable of moving, he might have over-corrected due to the sensation.  

But he couldn't.  He just stared speechless at the Doctor, remembering everything he said to ask him later what the hell he meant.            
   
The Doctor was _reading_ his skin.  

Time had most certainly stopped within the TARDIS, Ianto didn't breathe and he couldn't hear the water in the fountain tumbling up.  Or maybe it still was flowing and it was only he that stopped, anticipation winding him so coiled that he didn't dare blink for fear of bursting. 

"I knew ... well, I knew a few within the R'te-phire."  The hands were moving again, running up a line curving over Ianto's jaw.  "Not the H'd-tobi that created you, Ishaan and Inaani, but others.  They ... tolerated me."  With a smile that was perhaps more secretive than open, the Doctor touched Ianto's cheek, a confusing gesture as Ianto knew there were no marks at that spot on his skin.  "They were a brave people, just, and a bit more scholarly than the rest of them."  The Doctor's finger tapped his cheek twice, focusing all of Ianto's attention on what he saying, as though Ianto had been doing anything else. "Cast out any other scary thoughts you might be entertaining in that head of yours, Ianto of the R'te-phre.  You'd bring dishonor to their name if you believed them anything but good."  

Ianto opened his mouth to speak, then closed it before he could say anything trite or inane after the Doctor's words.  Nothing seemed appropriate and the sense of overwhelming ... everything ... completely stripped his vocabulary of anything other than syllabic nonsense.

He was supposed to hate this man.

He should; Ianto had countless reasons to hate him.

But he'd just given Ianto a gift that bordered on impossible.  Intangibles, like Jack visiting every day while Ianto was at Providence or Tosh combing his hair or even Owen looking after the Torchwood One survivors.  Unquantifiable and something he could never repay.  Not that they'd ever ask to be repaid; at least Ianto assumed what the Doctor had said came unconditionally.  His origins, his kind.  The Doctor could be lying, Ianto had never thought to look at it as a script before and not just ... a doodle Jack drew on important UNIT documents.  This would be one hell of a charade, though, because the Doctor was staring at him, open and honest and his words hadn't been overwhelming _that_ certainly was.  

The R'te-phire were good.  

For reasons he couldn't explain, that meant more to Ianto than anything the Doctor could have said, relief snapping back with such force that it almost hurt.  At least that was the excuse Ianto fed himself as to why his eyes were a bit watery.  He looked up at the ceiling, not really rotating his head since he could still feel the Doctor's hands on his face, just his eyes, glancing away for a moment to get his thoughts under control, to moisten lips a bit dry from the alcohol and above all, maintain his composure.

Which was difficult.  Incredibly difficult.  Swallowing-hard-around-the-lump-in-his-throat difficult.

  


It was the fear thing.  Fear of himself, fear of not knowing, fear of knowing, fear of _never_ knowing.  It didn't matter the angle, he was terrified.  But this ... helped.  Not that he wasn't still scared shitless, but his Coterie had been one of the good ones.  One that the Doctor had known and respected.  It shouldn't matter but it _did_.  

When he dropped his eyes from the ceiling and refocused on the Doctor's face, Ianto rather thought the Doctor knew just how much it mattered.

"Thank you."  Ianto sincerely meant those words, although his voice came didn't come out quite as he had intended, roughened like he had actually wept for an hour.  He cleared his throat but couldn't think of anything more to say that hadn't been summed up in those two words.

"The thanks is mine."  The Doctor's serious expression vanished quickly, and in its place a smile so wicked Ianto wondered if the man was channeling Jack.  "I'm assuming you've writing all over, the R'te-phire were an ancient Coterie as Ishaan and Inaani were elders among the Windhover.  If I was Jack, I'd say something shamelessly depraved when asking if you'd remove your kit."  So the Doctor _was_ channeling Jack.  "Though, I suppose I could just ask you to show me again."

This time Ianto couldn't stop the blush which stained his cheeks what he assumed was a remarkable shade of red.  Probably his neck too, as true embarrassment tended to encapsulate his whole body instead of just angry dots high on his cheeks.  Which the Doctor was still touching, rather unnecessarily so as he was no longer reading, maybe he was and he just wasn't telling Ianto?  

And he wanted to read more?  Or was he just taking the piss?

Fuck, he'd caught the line of thought Ianto had followed (briefly) earlier.  Maybe he had blushed when he'd considered it.  Or maybe the Doctor was psychic.

Whatever the case, the Doctor had appeared to have amused himself, chuckling at Ianto's expense.  Not that Ianto terribly minded, he supposed it could be considered amusing.  He didn't laugh though, he was more curious than not.  

"What do you see, when you look at me?"  The words tumbled out of his mouth before Ianto could think to apply a filter.  Or censor them altogether.  But as reason caught up with what he had asked, it made all the more sense.  Long ago, the Doctor had said in his human form Ianto appeared _human_ , with no deviation.  And if Ianto technically existed outside of time and space in this form, then what would a Time Lord see?  Would he see anything different?  

"I see," the Doctor tilted Ianto's face for different angles in the lighting, though Ianto suspected it was more for show since there hadn't appeared to be a primary source of the light in the room, "Ianto Jones, fragile human surrounded by the impossible, scribing itself into words of the R'te-phire.  The words feel," and again the Doctor's fingers tracing lines over Ianto's cheek, down to his jaw where the fingers stopped, "like all the brilliant ideas ever thought would feel if I could touch them.  And it tastes-"  Ianto's breath caught as the Doctor's lips pressed against his, actual thought losing its footing and tumbling to a crumpled heap while the Doctor _tasted_.  Crackled, time so solid in form as it fought for place against its opposite that the collision sparked new universes, stacked time over time as they spiraled away from the nothing that bound them.  Not nothing, _everything_ existing in the complete absence of all things, pressing, pushing against the stubborn time which bent only to curl around and reclaim ground but never space, infinite in its absoluteness, defined by the undefined.

At least that's what it felt like to Ianto when the Doctor pulled away, a soft "fuck" breathed out, not in curse but wonder.  

"Tastes like," the Doctor smacked his lips repeatedly, looking odd but Ianto recognized the trick of drawing air over taste buds to enhance and draw out subtle flavors.  "Meentak wine."

Ianto blinked, his mind refusing to play along until it slowly caught up with the fact that the Doctor had known the precise 'taste' before he'd ... oh, the Doctor had known and was teasing.  The smirk that stretched across the man's face would put any of Jack's to shame.  And he'd known exactly what sort of reaction it'd have on Ianto, which made the clothing perhaps more understandable.  Questionable?  Curious.             
   
He had asked, he supposed.  Sort of.

"And what of you, Ianto Jones of the R'te-phire."  The Doctor stepped away, hands in his pockets as he did a quick pirouette, still engaged but a much more somber tone than before.  "When you look at me, what do you see?"

He couldn't help himself.  The moment the question was asked Ianto flinched, the simple query reminding him of what he had been rather successfully ignoring, scrolling past his mind's eye faster than he could really read but he was aware of all the details.  They'd always been there, since the day Ianto had first met the Doctor through this moment in the garden with the fountain that flowed up, perhaps even more so standing before the Doctor with his Windhover wings stretched wide, the names of his Coterie and their nature still ringing in his ears, and his lips still tingling from the Doctor's 'taste'.  

Ianto was supposed to hate this man.  

"Ah."  The Doctor's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move, studying Ianto while he tried to come up with an answer.  "Nothing good, I assume.  Nothing the Windhover recorded was ever good." Ianto had to admit he had a point, and it was rather a depressing one at that. Everything it - and he truly needed a name for it because he was growing tired of 'it' - showed him, everything that popped into his mind when he least expected to _know_ something, rarely was it good. Like the fountain, though he appreciated not knowing anything regarding the technology or composition. Did that mean something? Could an entire race be inherently pessimistic, or did that allow them to better appreciate the good when they found it?

"What do you see?" The Doctor's tone left no room for disagreement, though Ianto was tempted to lie through his teeth. He had to know .. of course the Doctor knew. The Doctor was anything but a fool and what was this, a test then?

"Willfull destruction of the planet Gallifrey."  Ianto frowned as a question tickled the edges of his mind, but he shoved it aside for the time, along with the painful admission that this was how he was repaying the Doctor for the gift he had given Ianto earlier.  The Doctor himself refrained from commenting, just waited.  Like he knew and was waiting.  Anticipating.  Reluctantly, he continued, "Skaro."  Ianto felt no sorrow for the loss of that planet.  He continued the list, skipping along faster after the first two, "Delphine.  Phlxx.  Rachid-"

"What?"  The Doctor interrupted, but Ianto kept reading.  He was only at the beginning of a very large list - he'd started with the planets.

"-Onax.  Colony 4582 of the Glends.  Colony 4583 of the Glends.  Colony 4586 of the Glends.  Parallav.  Hrulub-"

"Not responsible for that one, either."  Scowling, the Doctor waved a hand and Ianto stopped.  Not that he really cared to go on.  It was bad enough seeing the list within his mind, but saying it aloud made the imperative to do _something_ all the stronger.  Sickening.  Especially as he couldn't actually _do_ anything.  

Ianto didn't think he really wanted to, either.

Did that make him a bad Windhover?  A disgrace?  He didn't even know what rules he was breaking by not doing anything.

The Doctor began pacing, quick passes which were only a matter of four steps by four steps marked in time by a hand through his hair every sixth step.  It was so patterned Ianto wondered if it was intentional, probably was.  Ianto crossed his arms and watched, having nothing to add to the half-thoughts and random words which made little sense even when he understood the word itself.  Something had agitated the Doctor, that was for certain, but over what? Wasn't the planet names - he'd shown no surprise when Ianto had said Gallifrey.  The Doctor didn't think he was responsible for something, but he was.  

Wasn't he?

"Well!"  The Doctor stopped suddenly, looking as manic as Ianto had ever seen him.  A disturbing false smile that never reached his eyes, almost vibrating with pent up energy and Ianto had the urge once again to question the man's sanity. "About time I return you to Cardiff, I reckon. Imagine the TARDIS seems quite dull compared to your adventures with Torchwood and Jack."

Stunned, Ianto had the distinct impression he was being kicked to the curb, which perhaps hours ago he may have believed but now? "Doctor?"  He waited for an answer, and quickly shifted any self-directed fears to returning to Cardiff.  And Jack.  Less fear, more uncertainty.  A sort of uncomfortableness like he'd dried a pair of denims and they didn't fit quite right.  But definitely less fear.  

And a touch of unfairness, which internally some portion of his mind which still entertained childish notions threw a righteous tantrum at the idea of leaving the TARDIS.  And the Doctor, who had told him so much already.  He'd been around the Windhovers, and he had yet to tell Ianto everything that he had even read on his skin, of the Coterie and the titles and the history, like he'd said was written there.  He wanted to know more about the Time Lords, more about Windhover culture, more about _everything_ , and dammit, his source was kicking him off the TARDIS.  

Which was another question as well.  Was there a reason he got the impressions and emotions from her?  He had so many questions, and it simply didn't seem _fair_.

But he was only a guest.  A hijacked guest, but a guest all the same.  It just ...

"It appears your knowledge source may be fallible when it comes to me.  And the Time Lords."  The Doctor's smile had vanished once more, leaving behind the sort of empty hardness Ianto saw so often on Jack's face in the field.  Something was terribly wrong.  And apparently his information was faulty.  How was that possible?  The notion was terrifying in its promise - that Ianto couldn't rely on it so dependently as he had in the past.  And when he saw others, new faces with their own personal records (if they had one) could he trust what he saw?  What if it was wrong too?  Or was it, like the Doctor said, just him?  "You should get washed up, still have a bit of dust on you from the Hall of Government and we wouldn't want to face the wrath of Jack dirty now, would we?"  

The Doctor smiled and retrieved the glasses and the decanter of Meentak wine and left the garden.  Ianto wouldn't say he fled but it was definitely in haste.  And left little time for Ianto to question the instructions or what was happening or even what he had done and how he could fix it.  Topsy-turvy, every which-way and that, Ianto's thoughts tumbled about as he tried to find some order.  Some explanation.  And mostly, a way to stay, even though he knew staying was most likely not a choice left to him.  

It wasn't hardly fair.  

Frustrated, Ianto turned to look at the beautiful gardens once more, enjoying the languid setting which was in such contrast to the abrupt mannerisms of the Doctor just now.  The water in the fountain still flowed up, diagonally, even parallel to the ground as it was framed spectacularly by millions of stars and galaxies Ianto might know the name of if he ventured closer, but for now, the simplicity pleased him, washed over him, left him feeling refreshed if not a little more calm.

He raised and lowered his wings once, stretching them out to their full width before drawing them close to his body, just because he could.

Here, in the quiet, safe gardens of the TARDIS, he was Windhover.  

He was supposed to hate the Doctor, loathe him for all the horrible things Ianto's mind said he'd done, apprehend him so he wouldn't commit any others.

Now, Ianto wasn't so sure.

And for someone who existed outside of time, Ianto mocked himself, he had simply run out.


	8. Chapter 8

Ianto straightened his already-straight tie as he walked towards the TARDIS bridge and added a tug at his cuffs for good measure, feeling almost confined by his suit, the lack of slats in the back and the absence of his wings just making it feel _off_.  He wasn't nervous; he swore to himself he wasn't nervous but rather it was just an adjustment of his facade, ensuring the front was as steady and nondescript as he felt, as there was absolutely nothing to be nervous about.  He was simply bracing himself for his return to Torchwood Three.

And to face the Doctor one last time.  

He'd tried to figure it out while showering; what he had done wrong, what he should have done differently, why the Doctor had behaved in that manner.  It wasn't that his behavior was odd - shifting from top gear to reverse was fairly typical.  But ...

Ianto supposed it was partially selfish.  He wanted to know because he was being denied an information source when he had no other known options.  Multiple information sources, if one included the TARDIS library as well.

Abrupt had nothing on how quickly the Doctor's mood had changed.  

But Ianto had known the Doctor had been serious after he'd toweled off and went to the wardrobe and it simply ... wasn't there.  His suit was on the chair he always used as a depository for dirty clothing at his flat.  He'd never admit it but that stung.  Just a bit.  Not that Ianto had planned on wearing any of the clothing off the TARDIS when he returned to Torchwood, he wouldn't dream of being so rude.  It just ... was final.  

And he didn't understand why.

The root of it all was centered around the Doctor's claim that Ianto's information was wrong.  Ianto knew that, he'd replayed their conversation while he'd washed until it became as well known to him as the Torchwood Manual.  Perhaps he'd been an arse to respond to the Doctor with the truth, rather like answering honestly if the dress made a woman look fat.  He could have lied; it wasn't as though Ianto was a complete failure at lying.  But the Doctor had been expecting the answer.  Or at least parts.  

If parts were untrue, what of the massive list was legitimately applicable to the Doctor?

If parts were untrue, the Doctor had better hope he not run into other Windhover.

If they existed.

Ianto quietly observed the Doctor, who just for a fraction of a second appeared unaware of his arrival.  To be sure, the Doctor went instantly manic, bouncing from station to station with a flurry of hand movements.  The endless chatter that Ianto had grown accustomed to during his stay was absent, however.  As was any form of eye contact.  

But Ianto had seen it within that fraction of a second.  Loneliness?  More solitude, resolute and determined.  

No, isolated.  

He kept his observation to himself, stepping forward as the TARDIS began to shudder, though still well removed from the Doctor's space as he dashed back and forth.  Really an inane design, the main console.  Ianto touched a nearby column in apology for the mental slight, but who would build such a thing where one would need multiple hands to run without stress-

 _Ah._

Ianto felt the pieces slowly shuffle, bits of information reorganizing in new categories and filling old.  He'd feel guilty for never having noticed before, but he had been wrapped in his own interests, selfish as that may have been.  Observing others had held little priority, unless it involved fantasizing about arresting the Doctor and trying him for all the crimes which listed themselves endlessly in Ianto's mind (a short-lived fantasy, but one that had entertained Ianto when what he saw or read simply became too _much_ ).  

And one fantasy which involved fucking Jack while the Doctor watched, but Ianto didn't count that one.  He preferred not to even acknowledge its existence in public places.  

But it made sense.  Maybe.

"How many Time Lords are left?"  Ianto didn't miss the way the Doctor's hand paused above a lever before it shoved the device with a little more force than necessary.  So it was true.  He kicked himself for not asking or realizing before; he was typically far more aware of others than this, but the Doctor was a challenging one to read.  And his focus had been elsewhere, especially after witnessing the destruction of Halcyon.  Which the Doctor had empathized.

He should have noticed. He was a better reader of nuance than that.

Where Ianto was the start of the next evolution of his kind, the Doctor was the last, or near last, of his.

Gallifrey was gone.  Ianto had known this and the Doctor had appeared willing to accept responsibility for its destruction. But that was only a planet; he'd assumed there were others, like the Doctor, traveling about the Universe with their own TARDIS. 

However, the TARDIS was to be operated by more than one.  If more than one had survived, why travel alone on a ship designed for many?

Those questions didn't end Ianto's concerns, proving more instigators of thought and question rather than detractors. What of the incorrect assignments within the Windhover knowledge?  The Doctor claimed he was not responsible for some.  Perhaps more than some. Possibly many, many more.

Ianto blamed the lurch of the TARDIS, not the implications, for his sudden lack of balance, clinging to a column like a sailor setting foot on dry land.  It wasn't possible.  Ianto couldn't fathom a reason why it could be. But the Doctor had reached the same conclusion, Ianto realized with a start.  The Windhover knowledge of the Time Lords was faulty.  Broken, perhaps, but Ianto didn't know how to right it even if he could.

And it was quite possible that, somehow, the Doctor was the only Time Lord in it.  

The TARDIS came to a halt, settling into a time and place Ianto assumed was present day Cardiff, if he was lucky within the Hub itself as he didn't have his keys, mobile, or anything else.  That had all been left behind between the frantic moment when the Torchwood alarms had sounded and being kidnapped by the TARDIS. He'd find out soon enough, and Ianto was pretty sure that wasn't the most pressing thing at the moment.

Ianto waited, making no movement towards the doors of the TARDIS nor towards the hall, just stood there, waiting. And finally the Doctor met his eyes - didn't say anything, but at least met his eyes.

Maybe it wasn't that the scrolling list in his mind restarted every time he looked at the Doctor.  

It was possible that the end had yet to be reached.

And the Doctor knew it.  Knew what Ianto saw, knew it wasn't because the Time Lords were an evil, horrible lot.  Rather, the passage of time in combination with actions on such a grand scale, touching galaxies or destroying stars, resulted in a list that never seemed to end, when there was only one name linked to the race.  

Where the other names were, or what became of them, Ianto didn't know, and it wasn't the time to ask.  

But he understood, or at least he thought he did.  The Doctor didn't travel to look the consequences of the Time Lords in the face, and Ianto was still fairly certain he was looking to absolve himself for whatever had transpired in the past.

Or the future.

Who knew with bloody Time Lords.

"There's a pack over there, just a few little trinkets."  The Doctor gestured with his head towards the doors; Ianto could just make out the rounded shape, nothing overly large.  "Be sure to pick it up on your way out."

Ianto nodded and tried to conceal his disappointment.  The random objects the Doctor had picked up while out and bestowed on Ianto while he researched were nice, but he would give anything just to travel with the Doctor more, to learn more about the Windhovers, the R'te-phire, everything.  He didn't even know the language, and how was he to know what was all written upon his skin if he couldn't read it?  And all the books in the library ...

But he knew names:  R'te-phire, Ishaan, Inaani.  He had learned who'd hunted the Windhovers and who ultimately destroyed them.  He had learned of their stories and their legends, their Laws and Proclamations.  

And he'd learned that his Coterie had been good.  

It wasn't much; but it was enough.  

It had to be.

"A pleasure, Doctor."  Ianto nodded his head once in respect and thanks he couldn't quite voice, apologies for the things he didn't know how to change and hope that the Doctor might find a time when he didn't feel quite so alone.  

He turned on his heel without waiting for a response; even if the Doctor was big on goodbyes he was pretty sure he would be an exception to any rules and to linger would be an embarrassment.  Ianto did pause as he reflected on a question, one he didn't know if the Doctor would answer given his hedging on the subject earlier.  But he thought he'd try anyway, his resolve growing as he slung the light pouch over his shoulder.  "What's Bad Wolf?  That's the only information associated with Jack.  'Bad Wolf,' over and over."

The Doctor actually laughed, to Ianto's surprise, a bitter laugh that held no joviality.  "The alpha and the omega, Ianto Jones of the R'te-phire.  Seems she took care of more than just his mortality."  

Ianto didn't miss the envy or the wistfulness, he supposed if this Bad Wolf, whatever it was, had intentionally wiped Jack's information, it was rather unfortunate that the Doctor's hadn't been cleared as well.

Or maybe it was intentional that the Doctor's name had remained, recording all the events resultant of Time Lord action.    
     
Hardly seemed fair.  But then, Ianto was being expelled from the TARDIS and that hardly seemed fair either.

Ianto looked around the TARDIS once more, admiring everything she was and could be.  He did wonder what would happen to his room and to all the marvelous architecture.  Recycled?  Having someone else stay in it made him twitch, but he knew the TARDIS would take care of it, one way or the other.  Thinking a 'goodbye' and a 'thank you,' Ianto rested his hand on the door as he had when he'd first approached and listened to her song of goodbye.  And it was as beautiful a melody as before, singing deep within Ianto's bones, haunting and exhilarating.  He couldn't describe it, but he felt it, pure and simple in its existence as it always had when the stars began and like it would when they dimmed.

He opened his eyes in surprise and a bit of wonder.  And just maybe ... was it possible?

Perhaps.  Ianto was learning nothing was impossible.  

Resolutely, with shoulders squared and the pack slung over his shoulder, Ianto opened the door and stepped into the dim lighting of the Hub.  He didn't look back and if he was honest with himself, it was to keep from returning to the Doctor and begging for more answers, for a longer trip.  Not that he wasn't somewhat happy to be back, he was. Somewhat. On a functional level he was - he'd missed the team, missed Jack no matter his wariness, missed his job, missed home. On an intellectual level, he'd give anything to go off with the Doctor again.

One step into the Hub and that dramatically changed; fuck if he didn't feel weak-kneed from the overpowering sense of _belonging_ curling warm and welcoming for all it lacked substance. Home, on such a deep-rooted level Ianto wondered how he'd ever not known it existed. Perhaps it was a product of what he was, or maybe it was just psychosomatic but it felt _real_ and unquestionable. Home, more than Halcyon could ever be to him, more than the TARDIS could be or any planet she might take him to.

Two steps were all it took to approach Jack who stood but a few yards away, stony-faced with his arms crossed and lips thinned and twisted into the same expression Ianto couldn't read right before Jack had left with the team to find the ... Mellonians.  That's what they had been.  Blue slug-like creatures.  Jack didn't move, barely even reacted when Ianto stopped just in front of him.  Not that he expected hugs and kisses, but the whole thing was so eerily familiar that Ianto wondered if the TARDIS had made a mistake and he'd simply reappeared to a time before he'd left.

The thought made his head hurt.  

A quick glance around told him that the others weren't there, so either it was evening or they were off on an errand or mission. Ianto's mind then leapt to another conclusion so off the rails it could be possible because it was Torchwood. Maybe the Doctor had taken him too far into the future, a time when they were long since dead. But Owen was already dead, just undead, so that didn't quite ring true. Could the undead become re-dead? He supposed it happened in zombie movies, and obviously anything that happened in a movie must be true.

"How long?"  Ianto asked in a voice a bit more hoarse than he'd intended over the grinding sounds of the disappearing TARDIS, but Jack distracted him while she and the Doctor left, and he nearly forgot about his panic that he might not be in the time he'd left.  Jack was unnerving, if not a bit threatening.  Not threatening, that wasn't it.  Angry.  Angry for Ianto returning?  

"Three days."  Jack's response was short and a minor relief, but he didn't ask Ianto how long he'd been away, not that Ianto could answer as linear time in the TARDIS was a bit fuzzy.  Then again, Ianto hadn't asked Jack either, upon his return months back, one of those things Ianto had just known he'd never receive an answer for.  So Ianto hadn't asked. And this was what? Respect, he supposed.  Grudging acknowledgment that Ianto possessed his own will and mind?

No. Fuck, he'd known.  

Jack had _known_.

How he knew that Ianto was going to leave with the Doctor, Ianto had no idea.  But before he'd left, the stare so similar to the one now, Jack had appeared like he'd wanted to say something. Like he'd wanted ... hell, Ianto had no clue, he'd graded shit on the Torchwood Psi scale, he couldn't read Jack's mind. But Jack had looked like he'd wanted him to. And it hardly seemed fair, Ianto had not even been aware that he was leaving till the TARDIS had kidnapped him and the Doctor both.  He hadn't meant to leave, but Jack thought what, that he had chosen the Doctor over Jack?

Well, shit.  It wasn't like Jack would probably believe him that he had been kidnapped by a ship.  Maybe he would, but Ianto hadn't seen Jack this ... angry?  Jealous?  

No.  Possessive.

Insecure?

Although Ianto supposed he could be reading more into it then Jack intended.  The captain was protective of his team, and they had been short-staffed during the three days Ianto had been gone on what was the second disappearance act in Ianto's life when prior to he'd never even called in sick or took vacation.  Maybe it was just karma-like and he was making up for lost time.   

Ianto nodded in appreciation for the time stamp, brushing aside the thought that it was nice to be desired, even if it was just that in his absence he was missed.

Or maybe not.  Ianto had been away for a time, but he could still read the restraint in Jack's eyes.

He would have asked if it was to slug or snog, but the sound of the TARDIS interrupted his thoughts, surprising him, and if the expression on Jack's face was any indication, surprised him as well.  

The TARDIS emerged right where it had left not seconds before, confusing the hell out of Ianto and for a brief, fleeting moment, he thought that quite possibly, the Doctor had gotten something wrong with the whole time travel thing.

That would have amused Ianto, if it wouldn't have also made him terribly sad.

"Ianto!"  The Doctor's head emerged from the TARDIS, sounding chipper as only the Doctor could, a broad smile on his face that wasn't as warm as Ianto had seen it.  "Your mobile."

Confusion and surprise were the only thoughts Ianto could entertain; he hadn't left his mobile on the TARDIS, he hadn't had it on him when he'd stepped on.  And even then, if he had forgotten it, why would the Doctor bother to return it?

"Here."

Ianto spun back about, curious until Jack withdrew a device from his pocket and extended it towards Ianto.  Flipping it around in his hands, he realized it was his mobile.  How had ... no, why ... no, didn't matter, Ianto decided as Jack shrugged in response to all of Ianto's unasked questions, shrugging in that elusive 'What? It's nothing' way that Ianto knew better than to trust entirely on face value.

But they had a guest, so Ianto's questions would have to wait till later.

Turning towards the Doctor, Ianto didn't even have time to open his mouth to form a question, much less ask it as the Doctor promptly removed the mobile from his hands without so much a by-your-leave.  His sonic screwdriver was out just a second later, zapping Ianto's mobile twice before he pocketed them both with a flourish and a wink.  "Just in case I need to phone someone.  Martha!  Do share the number with Martha as well!"

His brain caught up a second later and Ianto couldn't help but return the smile.  Visions of the salmon-colored planet Trahgdar popped into his mind, where the Doctor's previous mobile had been bartered off for a fabulous cup of coffee, a banana, and no contact from or to Jack.  

The Doctor could phone someone now, or someone could phone him.  

If he needed to, Ianto realized, the Doctor had just given him a method of contacting him.  Hell, he'd extended permission to phone him.

Ianto had to admit that he might like the Doctor, no matter what his instincts said.   

"And Jack, go easy on the boy. It wasn't his choice to leave."

Jack's eyebrow arched in question and Ianto was the one to shrug this time as the Doctor dashed back into the TARDIS. The thrumming sounds of her springing into action reverberated around the Hub, and Ianto added over the beats, "The TARDIS sort of kidnapped us both."

"Did she?"  Apparently Jack found this terribly amusing and as he laughed, the harsh demeanor melted away in a sound Ianto had missed even before he'd left.  To Jack only three days had past, but Ianto knew he'd been away for longer.  Even still, Ianto could hardly remember the last time he'd heard Jack truly laugh; quite possibly some time before Providence Park. Maybe even that day walking back to Torchwood from the pub, on that fateful day when Ianto had seen his mother standing next to the Information Center and everything had changed.  For the better?  Worse?  Ianto still wasn't sure.  He had questions for Jack that he wasn't sure he'd hear answers to, knowing full-well that if Jack did answer, he might not like the answers he received.  

Plus he had some secrets of his own that he ought to tell Jack.  The Doctor had said Jack would understand, reinforcing what Ianto had already believed no matter what may have happened in Jack's past.

It was just ... it had taken the TARDIS kidnapping him to a dead solar system to finally tell the Doctor. Actually, it took the TARDIS kidnapping him to a dead solar system to reveal enough to the Doctor (involuntary as it had been) for the Doctor to figure it out.

He ought to tell Jack.

He should.

But the instinct to trust only himself was so strong he wasn't even sure he could force the words from his mouth.

Jack still laughed as he abruptly pulled Ianto into a hug that he hadn't expected and had almost feared asking for. And if Ianto squeezed a little harder than was proper, he blamed TARDIS-lag. He may have been a bit happier to return home than he initially had thought, the intense sense of returning overwhelming. Returning _home_. To Earth, to his time. It was ridiculous and silly, but so was the almost giddiness with which Jack was acting, as though the Doctor's apparent 'approval' of Ianto had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. Approval in the health sense, approval in whatever distrust, maybe Jack had honestly left him alone with the Doctor with the intentions the Doctor had hinted at.

Did it matter?

Ianto still had his secrets. With his arms wound tightly around Jack's waist, his face pressed into a 51st century pheromones-smelling neck, Ianto knew the time would come when he'd have to address the truths he was keeping from Jack. But only, he resolved, when he could assure his own safety, if for some reason the Doctor had been mistaken. He had a responsibility, he felt; even if he didn't know how to develop the numbers of the Children of the Windhovers, as the Doctor liked to call him, he had a responsibility to _live_.

Or exist, as the Windhovers would have it.

"Did he fix you?" Jack asked, talking more into Ianto's hair than actually vocalizing. Ianto chuckled, more a couple puffs of air into Jack's neck that tickled against his lips. He remembered Owen saying that, when Jack had returned from his trip with the Doctor, and it sounded as foolish now as it did then. But maybe that's how Jack intended it, a serious question buried in a silly package.

Ianto felt Jack toying with the pouch looped over his shoulder, but he was pretty sure Jack wasn't prying. Just .. touching. "What's to fix?"

Neither spoke, Ianto's quote of Jack double-edged at best and he knew it. He knew it as much as Jack had meant it upon his return, and he knew precisely what it meant now. There hadn't been a problem when Ianto had left, and there still wasn't a problem now. He was keeping things from Jack, knowingly and willingly, things which had affected him, terrified him, sectioned him. And Jack wasn't an idiot.

He should tell Jack. He really should.

Jack had laughed. That meant something.

It had to.

 _R'te-phire_ , Ianto repeated once more.

***

Later that night, Ianto returned to his flat.  Without hesitation, he went to each of the three cameras tucked away in the obvious spaces and removed them, dropping them in with his keys to return to Torchwood later. It wasn't that Jack had said he could, or even that he'd removed the authorization of spying on one Torchwood Agent Ianto Jones. But he simply didn't care. His privacy was his privacy, and if Jack disagreed then, well, Ianto would set up cameras in Jack's underground bedroom and broadcast it on Torchwood's internal CCTV. Gwen, Tosh and Owen, too. See how long it lasted before they agreed.

He didn't think he'd have any trouble, though. It wasn't that he and Jack had really talked, not about anything important. Just what had transpired over the past three days, the field reports and a bit of gossip over Gwen and Owen's latest spat. Ianto simply thought the time for the monitoring was well past and he was inclined to believe that Jack wouldn't argue.

Jack had _laughed_.

And that was something.  

Ianto set the pouch the Doctor had given him on the bed, curious what trinkets rested inside.  He could probably show Jack some of the knick-knacks, he might even recognize some.  

The first thing Ianto noticed was that it was a lot bigger on the inside.  He picked it up and looked under the bag to make sure, realizing he was being ridiculous but bags like these were impossible.

Except when they weren't.

Rather like the Doctor's overcoat pockets.

The second thing he noticed was the book, a rather large tome in thick bindings etched in an artful script which seemed to glow upon the surface.  _Highest Jolar Sabien of the R'te-phire_.  Just to make sure, Ianto traced the name, afraid that if he looked away, it might disappear into something else entirely.  He hadn't read this in the library, hadn't even seen it.  Eagerly flipping through it, he realized it was a book of stories, made up or real he wasn't sure - some of the tales he'd read on board the TARDIS had seemed so implausible but as Ianto skimmed the text, he grinned.  The adventures of a Windhover traveling with a Time Lord, with scribbles in the margins of 'what really happened' according to a second pen.  

Ianto was fairly sure this book had never been published, nor mass produced, not given the two races' history.  Didn't matter now, he supposed, but perhaps ...

He closed the book, running a reverent hand over the cover as though he could eke some sense of the Windhover who wrote it out of the material.  

Didn't work, but that didn't mean he couldn't pretend, just for a moment.

The third thing Ianto noticed within the pouch was clothing.

Lots and lots of clothing. 

  
 _Fin._


End file.
